


Ghost of a Chance

by cellard00rs



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Amnesia, Angst, Character Death, Dark subject matter, Ghosts, Horror, M/M, Memory Loss, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Past Prostitution, Sibling Incest, Suspense
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-10
Updated: 2016-11-19
Packaged: 2018-08-07 23:18:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 22,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7733704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cellard00rs/pseuds/cellard00rs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Ford’s death, Stan is left his house. Unfortunately, Ford’s haunting it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_Please come._

That’s what the postcard says. Stan looks at and sees Ford name.

_Please come._

Stan turns the postcard around in his hands over and over again. His brother is asking for him. His twin brother. The one he hasn’t seen in years, the one who turned his back on him, the one that he cared about more than anything.

_Please come._

Stan runs his fingertips lightly along his name. Ford. He looks at the return address. Oregon. He could make it there. He’d have to sell what little he has, he’d have to struggle, but he could make it there.

_Please come._

He chews on his bottom lip and runs a hand through his mullet and thinks long and hard about what to do.

_Please come._

With a growl, he tosses it in the trash. No. No, he will not _come_. He’s not some dog to be called to heel. Ford turned his back on him, so Stan can easily do the same. How many times did Stan come to Ford’s defense? How many times did Stan stand up for him? Protect him? How many times did he come to his brother’s aid and the one time, the ONE time, he needed his brother to do the same – needed his brother to back him up, his brother didn’t do it.

He did everything for Ford – everything! And Ford left him to the wolves. Ford let his father kick him out. Ford didn’t care – Ford didn’t come, so why should Stanley? Stan’s been fine on his own. No, okay, not really. Not at all. But that just drives the point home further – Stanley’s life is in shambles. _Shambles_.

And it’s all because of Ford. Ford ruined his life.

So, no. Stanley will not come.

 

+

 

It’s several weeks later and Stan’s still staying in the same shithole motel. He hears another sound at the door and again reaches for his baseball bat, more than ready. He honestly expected to have to face Rico way before now – what’s the guy’s game? Is he just playing with him? Once more he edges up to the peep hole on the door, but there’s no one there. He looks down and sees another missive.

Is Ford actually contacting him again?

Why doesn’t the guy just take a hint? But this isn’t a post card, this is a letter. He turns it over and sees a law office as the return sender. Great. Just great. Stan’s always got some law office or another after him, so this isn’t anything new. He’s more than prepared to toss it in the trash when something…something compels him to open it.

He doesn’t know what. It’s just…this feeling. It’s this awful sinking feeling, right in the center of his gut. It’s probably just junk, Stan reassures himself, probably just some lawsuit from some Stan Co. product. It’s nothing, it’s nothing. It’s just trash, it’s just…

His stomach is twisting and his throat feels dry and he can’t explain it, can’t explain this sick feeling until he reads:

_Mr. Stanley Pines,_

_We regret to inform you_ –

His eyes scan it, sees all these strongly lettered words and he immediately rejects them. All those tiny words he picks up. He didn’t see his brother’s name. He didn’t see anything, anything that would lead him to believe Ford is…

He crumples it up and covers his mouth. He was standing when he opened it, but now he carefully lowers himself to the floor. He sits on the cruddy carpet, his back against a chipped, wood paneled wall. He sits there, lump in his throat, tears resting right on the edges of his eyelashes and he shakes his head rapidly, because no, no, _no_.

These feelings, these words he’s terrified to _really_ read and see and comprehend…they’re not _there_. He’s dreaming this. He’s imaging it. Any minute now he’s going to wake up. He’s going to be in the trunk of Rico’s car. He’s going to be sleeping in pile of his own drool on the motel bed. He’s going to be back in Glass Shard Beach, years younger, and everything is fine and none of this ever happened and-

He’s looks at the letter again.

… _Stanford Pines was found_ …

Oh, no. Oh, god. Oh, no, no, he wasn’t. He couldn’t...he would never…Ford would never, ever…

… _urgently request your presence at our offices in order to discuss his last will and testa_ -

An anguished cry rends the air and it takes Stan several moments to realize he made it. And once he does, he makes it again and again, he starts rocking where he sits as he clutches the letter to himself and just proceeds to completely and utterly lose his mind.

 

+

_Please come._

+

 

It’s all a hazy dream.

It’s all immaterial, gauzy. And cold. It’s so bitterly cold. Cold like the ice and snow he struggles through once he hits Oregon. Gravity Falls. It’s a small town, a quiet town. It’s buried under so much snow – white washed and plain and meaningless. Stan goes to the office he’s directed to go to.

His parents have already come. They’ve come and gone. They already did everything that truly needed to be done, because his father’s an expedient man, and he didn’t want to waste any more time (or money) than he had to taking care of this…this…

Stanford Pines is dead.

Dead and buried.

It’s been explain to Stan. Several times. Over and over – different people have told him what happened. Or what they _believe_ happened. They explain how Ford’s body was found - when it was found, where it was found.

They ramble on and on about the likeliest causes of death and how none of them saw it coming, how he was a model citizen, how he mostly kept to himself. Such a shame, such a tragedy.

“The house is all yours,” they tell him.

“He left it to you,” they say.

“All paid for, all ready. You can move in whenever you’d like. Or you can sell it or you can…”

He doesn’t want to hear it. Not any of it. Stan hears the words, but he couldn’t care less about them. Ford had asked him to come. He’d _begged_ him to come. And Stan hadn’t done it. He’d thrown that postcard in the trash and he thinks of it now, wonders where it ended up. Some maid back at that motel probably tossed it in a dumper and then that dumpster was picked up by a truck and then that truck went to a landfill.

The card probably rests there now – rests in pounds and pounds of garbage. Covered in filth, the last thing Ford ever wrote to him - smudged, stained, and lost to time.

Stan didn’t get to attend the funeral. He wasn’t here in time. Pops…no, his father…Filbrick. Filbrick Pines saw his son buried and done with as quickly as possible. They’ve told him where he can find the headstone, should he wish to see it.

He doesn’t.

He doesn’t want to see anything, to do anything. He’s functioning, but he’s not living. He’s dead. He died the exact same moment his twin did – even if he didn’t feel it, even if he didn’t _know_ exactly when…

And that’s the worst part of it, in some ways. It’s not like they ever had any deeply spiritual connection, but Stan always thought that if something bad – really, truly, terribly bad happened to Ford – he’d just feel it. He’d _know_.

But, apparently, that’s not the case. Because his brother died and he didn’t feel a goddamn thing. He’d had no idea until that letter arrived. That’s when he knew. That’s when it hit him.

And the post card before?

He hadn’t felt it then – hadn’t felt how badly, how terribly, his brother truly needed him. Or maybe he had. Maybe he’d felt it, but he’d just ignored it and now Ford is dead. He’s _dead_ and Stanley will never be able to see him again, never talk to him again, never get to tell him he’s sorry, he’s sorry; he’s so, so…

Maybe that’s why Stanley goes to the house. More like a shack, really. After all, it is his now. Ford left it to him. Ford left him this…place. It’s still snowing, big hefty flakes coming down in thick waves. Stan crunches through the snow, feels it soak his dirty black jeans, feels it sink into his ragged boots, seeking out the tiny holes in his cheap socks to touch bare skin. He tromps up the front step and digs out the key they gave him. It takes a while but he manages to work it open.

He passes through the front door to discover that the inside is just as cold as the outside. Good. He doesn’t want to feel warmth. It’s the last thing he wants, the last thing he deserves. He goes into the cold shack and closes the door behind him. There’s a stiffness to the air, a staleness. It’s dark and eerie. There’s clutter everywhere – science-y looking equipment, papers, half-finished mugs of old coffee. He carefully picks his way through all of it. This was Ford’s home. This was where Ford was when Stan was…all over.

Stan goes up a set of rickety stairs and finds a room with a truly hideous carpet. There are a couple decanters of booze to one side and he’s beyond tempted. He knows better. That was a hole he fell down once, best not to go down it again. Or maybe it would be good. After all, what does it matter? What does anything matter now? This in mind, he pours himself a drink and downs it. The liquor burns; reminds him how much he missed it. He shudders and is about to take another when he smells it. His hand tightens on the tumbler he’s holding and he turns, chucks it against a nearby wall.

He takes deep satisfaction in watching it shatter, but it doesn’t change the fact that that smell is still in the air.

That smell…that scent that was solely Ford’s.

He feels like collapsing again, crying again, but all the tears left him long ago. Instead he just breathes in deep. Clean and fresh, bergamot and a touch of cedar. That’s Stanford. That’s the smell that makes his heart clench, his head ache.

He remembers once how he teased Ford about that smell. How his brother had these scents clinging to his skin from washing too much, because he went through a brief phase where he was far too cleanly.

Looking around he sees that this is obviously something that fell to the wayside when he got older. This place is a mess and Stan imagines Ford is too. No…he was. He was a mess. He probably didn’t shower, probably didn’t eat, didn’t sleep, didn’t take care of himself – _well, fuck, of course he didn’t take care of himself because he’s DEAD! He’s dead, you stupid son of a bit-!_

The sound of the words bouncing off the walls key Stanley into the fact that he’s talking aloud to himself. How those words aren’t just thoughts anymore. They escape him, unbidden. He swallows thickly, hears a sound like a sob and hates himself for it. He sees a red, leather bound journal on the nearby couch and feels himself drawn to it. He sits down and picks up the book. There’s very little light inside the shack. He’s stuck mostly to his flashlight since arriving. He’s sure the lights work, but he hasn’t had the heart to flip the switch, to bath himself in the all-encompassing pleasure of electrical lighting. No, he’s stuck to what he’s allowed himself to have, which isn’t much.

The couch is near a window and some light from outside streams in, the snow almost glowing in the darkness of the night. It glistens, it sparkles, deep and mysterious and he opens the book. Ford’s hand writing is inside. Crazy squiggles, some neat cursive, a lot of it hard to decipher. He doesn’t read it, just runs his fingers over it and feels his heart break that much more. Ford. His brother, his twin. He’s…gone. Forever.

Stan lies back on the couch, hugging the book close to his chest, eyes dry from old tears, chest heavy. He wants to be gone too. He wants to be dead and done. But he’s still breathing. He’s positive he won’t get much sleep tonight, or tomorrow night, positive he won’t ever sleep aga…

 

+

_You came._

+

 

A startled gasp rips from Stan as he sits upright, heart pounding in his chest. He looks around, lost, bewildered. Who said that! Where is he? Is he being held captive? Did Rico get him-? Or did someone else-?

He fumbles about wildly and falls over to land on a plush carpet. He frowns and sits upright, rubbing at his head. He reaches out blindly until his hand nudges a flashlight. He clicks it on and blinks rapidly as his eyes adjust. He sees the red journal sprawled open next to him, as well as a blanket. Wait, a blanket? Where the hell did the _blanket_ come from? He picks it up and frowns at it. It’s a standard blanket. Blue and soft. Maybe…maybe he put it over himself before he went to sleep? But he doesn’t remember seeing it. Not on the couch…not anywhere in this room.

And that scent… bergamot and a cedar. It’s stronger now.

He carefully sweeps the flashlight around the room. It looks the way he remembers it. But the glass…the one he shattered against the wall. It’s gone. Every single piece of it. Every shard. Not one bit remains where he threw it and he knows he threw it. He gets up and walks into the nearby restroom. He sees a wastebasket next to the toilet. He looks down into it and his flashlight picks up the twinkle of glass. Someone…cleaned up? Someone swept up the broken glass and put it in here? He didn’t do that. He _knows_ he didn’t. Fuck. He’s losing his mind. He’s losing his…

Stan lets out a groan and rubs at his face. The smell is gone. The smell he _imagined_. The one he probably imagined, because he himself _reeks_. Talk about someone who needs a shower. He closes his eyes and breathes in deep, finally giving in to common sense, to average needs. He flicks on the bathroom light switch. Bright lights flood the room and he curses. He catches sight of himself in the mirror and it’s quite a sight.

His brown eyes are blood shot beyond belief. He’s got quite a beard going and his long hair is greasy and gross looking. His red hoodie is stained, as is the white shirt beneath, same goes for his jeans. He doesn’t even want to think about what his underwear looks like. He eyes the shower and sees some blue towels to one side. Part of him doesn’t want to shower – it wants to continue to wallow in misery. Another part…

He licks his lips and starts stripping off all his disgusting clothing. It falls to the floor, a nasty heap. He gets into the shower and clicks on the water and it’s heaven. It’s warm. He swore he didn’t want it, he was determined to deny himself it, but now, god, now…it feels so _good_. The water washes all over him and it’s like it’s melting him, stripping away layers, and the tears return. It was if they were frozen and the heat’s let them flow again, fresh and free. They roll down his cheeks as he silently weeps and weeps. There’s not even any real emotion attached to them. He’s beyond sadness, beyond anything.

He’s buried in apathy, but apathy with the benefit of tears. Tears that are lost to pelting water from the shower head above him. He buries his face in the water and lets himself get completely soaked.

He draws in a ragged breath and humid air fills his lungs and he’s alive. He’s alive. He leaves the shower and dries himself off, knowing he’ll have to rustle up something to wear. He needs to start thinking, he needs to start living.

This is his house now, right? His home. Or is it? Is this home? Is he going to stay here? Are his years of being a rover finally coming to an end? Is he actually going to plant roots?

There’s so much to do, so much to consider and he thinks about this as he pulls on the pajamas laid out for him and…

…pajamas…laid out for…

He stops. He stops everything. He has on a set of blue pajama bottoms. He drew on the matching blue pajama shirt, although he has yet to button it up. Instead it hangs on his slightly damp skin and he stands there, every hair on his body standing on end.

“Where did these pajamas come from?”

The question is spoken aloud to himself. No one answers. He looks down at the pajamas. They’re totally normal. Normal, average blue pajamas. He looks behind him. The towel he used to dry himself has already been hung up to dry. His dirty clothes have been neatly folded and put to one side.

“Holy shit.”

Again, no answer, no sound. Nothing but his own breathing, his own talking.

He looks in the mirror again. It’s covered in condensation. He can’t see his face. But he can see the two words written there clear as day:

_You came._


	2. Chapter 2

He doesn’t know who he is, but he knows he’s dead.

He doesn’t remember dying, but to be fair, his mind hasn’t been doing him much good for a very long time now. Insanity will do that to you. And he’s pretty sure he was insane. Or, at least, he was back when he was living. He’s sure. Mostly sure. Again, shoddy memories. Like not knowing his name and who is, for example.

But he’s pretty sure about the insanity part when he finds himself in this ramshackle building, surrounded by the weirdest objects possible. He sees them and sees this place and he knows, _knows_ that they are his, yet everything else eludes him. Well, everything except the sense that he’s more sane now than he was before and isn’t that funny? To be more sane after your death.

After your death, when you are nothing more than a collection of ghostly atoms that have somehow had yet to dissipate. It’s fascinating, really. He wishes he could study it, explain it. Why? Why does he want to study it? Why does he want to explain it? Was he some sort of philosopher? This place has a lot of books, a lot of science equipment.

So…a scientist then? Is that how he died? Did some experiment go awry? What is the last thing he remembers? He doesn’t know, but it occurs to him that he’s…written about ghosts before. He wrote about them in some book…some journal? And the ghosts, they had classifications, but he feels strongly that he doesn’t fit in any of them. That he’s something…new. Again, funny to be new, to be different, but only after one’s death.

If only his mind wasn’t so terribly jumbled, he’d know better! He does, however, distinctly remember when he first discovered he was a ghost. Mainly because he walked right through the footrest of an armchair like it wasn’t there. It was a strange moment. It was like he just…came into existence.  He found himself in a sitting room, not quite remembering how he got there or who he was or what he was doing last, and then he just walked right through it.

He looked down and oh, yes, hello, there was this odd little…pressure. And his legs disappeared into the material of the footrest and then they changed, became translucent and…

To say it was alarming would be a vast understatement.

Naturally there was confusion. There was sorrow, there was rage. Grief doesn’t go through the stages described. It’s more a massive jumble of emotions and yes, he can still _feel_. Oh, not temperatures, of course. He no longer feels hot or cold. He no longer has to eat or sleep. He has no need to use the restroom or breathe or…

But he _feels_. He feels emotions. In some ways, he thinks he feels them far more keenly now than he ever did before. They cycle thorough him with rapid intensity. He’s sure he used to have a better handle on them; that he used to be more controlled. But now? Now they run loose and wild from him, freed from the cage of his body. And they seem to effect the environment around him.

That is to say, the walls bled water. Not blood. _Water_. He doesn’t know why water emerged, but it did. Cold and wet, it soaked through the wallpaper, made it bubble and crack and his fear, his alarm, seemed to make it worse. He recognized that somehow he was doing it and he left, he _ran_. Or, at least, he _tried_.

He ran outside, saw a building looming behind him, a triangular shack, but he didn’t recognize it. Didn’t recognize _anything_ and it just made his emotions _worse_. So, he ran, but he only got several hundred feet before he was dragged back. More likely to say, _teleported_ back. He reached a certain point and then, in the blink of an eye, he was right back in front of the Shack again. He tried from different directions and still, always the same. Several hundred feet and then, poof, back at the Shack’s front door.

He didn’t measure the exact amount of feet, but what did it matter? He’s…trapped. Trapped here, in this place, in this realm. Just…existing. Existing but without an identity, without a purpose. His sorrow was paramount, his feelings of surrender overwhelming. He retreated back into the Shack and just let the waterfalls come freely until he finally made them stop.

He made them stop when he realized that he’s a _scientist_. He had at least had that thought (that memory?). He uncovered _something_ , no matter how slight. He’s a scientist. There’s his identity, his sense of self. Clinging to that, he decided to do what a scientist would do best. Investigate!

He went to a mirror and, of course, saw no reflection. Dumb idea, he had to do better! True, he could look down and see himself, but he had no idea what his face looked like. Taking stock of his body, he was average at best. Except for his hands – he had six fingers on each! Six fingers…something about that made his mind buzz; made him feel like he was just on the verge of a memory.

When nothing came, he took to wandering the Shack. He saw some books and wondering if the fabled journal was among them, he reached for them but his hand passed right through. Of course. Ghost. Muttering to himself, he turned elsewhere, continuing to catalogue what he found – every book, every scrap of paper, every unfinished mug of coffee.

Nothing really seemed to spark his memories into action, but it was a relief to start uncovering this place, in starting to solve the mystery of who he is. Or was.  Unfortunately he could find no pictures, no artifacts of sentimentality. The Shack from top to bottom is pretty utilitarian, almost Spartan. Messy, yes, but personal? No.

And then, much to his surprise, the police came.  It was an odd relief – to see people after what felt like ages. They poked around and he tried to talk to them, but of course he went unheard. However, it was at this point that he discovered several things. The first was that he _could_ affect actual items. This was discovered when one of the police officers was going through a book shelf he had had yet to really inspect.

They came across a red, leather bound journal and the sight of it sparked some sort of…fervor inside of him. The officer’s hands barely touched it when he cried, “That’s mine!” and he made a grab for it. He barely, just barely, felt the cover beneath his fingertips and it skittered away from the cop’s grip as if he’d knocked it from his hand. The officer seemed startled, but then just sort of shrugged it off. He reached for it again and once more he leapt at, clutched it close to himself and he was…holding it!

He was holding it! The officer now looked more than a little startled, “Sheriff!”

“What is it deputy?”

“Th-there was a book here! I…I tried to grab it and it…it moved away from me and now it’s-it’s gone! It’s like it just…up and disappeared!”

“Now, calm down. I can understand why you might be a little on edge. This place is downright spooky! And we haven’t had a lot of passings in this town, much less like his. Maybe you just _imagined_ a book?”

“Well,” the young deputy hemmed and hawed, “I guess I might’ve…but I could have sworn…”

“Don’t worry about it. Just remember your training.”

The deputy seemed to take this to heart and the two continued their search. He let them, because now that he was holding his journal, he was too happy to care what they did. He could touch things! He could move and manipulate them! And he remembered this journal was his! That it was important to him!

This brought a large grin to his face. It just…it felt so good to be closer to being normal…to being _alive_. After they left he continued to go through his items, to move things this way and that. To be corporeal, to touch things, to _feel_ them – it was such a relief! So much so that he did things he’s sure he never desired to do before. Like actually straighten this pigsty! He cleaned some of the upstairs rooms, because it was an activity. It was _something_.

But he didn’t get far before he was overcome with the pointlessness of it. Why bother cleaning? It wasn’t as if he was actually alive to enjoy it. This led him to letting the downstairs remain cluttered and he found himself sequestered to the upstairs – to his…bedroom?

He’s pretty sure it was his room and this led to his second discovery. The journal. He’d been so happy about being able to touch objects that he’d neglected the first item he actually touched. The journal had a gold, six fingered emblem on the front. A number ‘1’ in the center. He opened it and began to read and the first thing he came across was a name.

Stanford Pines.

Was he…Stanford Pines?

It sounded…right. Maybe. But not quite…

…Ford?

Yes! That’s it! His name…his was Ford!

Remembering this delighted him. While no other memories came to the ready, recognizing his name at long last brought a great sense of accomplishment. His name was Ford. Ford read the journal from cover to cover; hoping for more insight, more memories, but once more was disappointed. The disappointed swallowed him whole.

He felt himself fade more and more as he just sort of…floated.

Again, existence, but not much else.

Then _he_ came.

+

 

The snow outside is still coming down and Ford is watching it from the kitchen windows when he hears scratching noises at the front door. The sounds are unsettling at first, but then he banishes the fear. What’s there to be scared of? He’s already dead. Nothing can hurt him at this point. No one can do anything crazy, like, steal his eyes or something. Steal his eyes…what a strange thought…

Ford goes to the door and watches the knob jiggle as if someone’s struggling to open it. There had been other locks attached to the front door at one point. Far too many and Ford concluded that he had not just been a scientist, but a paranoid one.  However, the other locks had long since been dismantled and removed by the police. They took those down and they took several boxes worth of materials that they believed were pertinent to his death. None of them were.

…or at least, he doesn’t think so. Blast! If only he could recover his memories of the event!  Hell, if only he could recover ALL his memories, period. But they continue to elude him. As such, it’s best to currently just focus on the here and now, especially considering the door is finally giving way to whoever is opening it. And this is when Ford comes face with a strange man.

The man is big and slightly intimidating. He’s clearly not a police officer, but Ford has no other idea why he would be in his house. Maybe a burglar? Perhaps there are tools of such a trade in the duffle bag he’s carrying. Ford notices there’s a name on the bag and he hovers near to read it. His eyes widen as he breathes, “Stanley?”

Naturally he goes unheard. As such, he’s left with Stan entering and shutting the door behind him as if no one spoke to him. Stanley…that’s a different name, but it’s similar to his own. What an odd coincidence. Or maybe not…maybe he’s…related to this person? Aside from the police, no one has come. Perhaps he has family! Or, well, _had_ family.

And Stanley…god, that name _feels_ so familiar. And the feelings it brings…

Ford does his best to look at Stanley, to study him. Despite gaining some new abilities as a spectral entity, Ford’s sight is relatively normal. That is to say, he sees just as he would have were he alive. As such, it’s a little hard to discern Stanley’s full features in the darkness of the Shack.

Stanley has a flashlight, but it’s not like he’s pointing it directly in his face. He also seems reluctant to flick on any of the light switches. But Ford can see his breath in the air and he recognizes that the inside of his home must be as cold as the outside. This makes sense. Again, he doesn’t feel hot or cold anymore. No reason to start a fire or click on the heat, but that’s beside the point.

He focuses all his attention on Stanley, watching him sway his flashlight idly over items in Ford’s home. He goes from room to room, sort of taking stock and Ford just follows behind him like a lost puppy, unsure what to do or say. Not that either thing would be noticed by this living person. He can’t be heard when he speaks and as for doing something, well, while he knows he can move things, touch things, pick things up, he’s not so inclined to do any of that now. What would be the point?

No, instead he trails after Stan, who moves up the stairs and goes into Ford’s bedroom. He approaches a decanter set and is eyeing it balefully. He pours himself a drink and downs it like he needs it, his body trembling while he imbibes. Ford frowns, not liking the look of that. The flashlight is to one side and it better highlights Stan. He doesn’t look like a burglar anymore. More like a (handsome) homeless vagrant, a drunkard.

Oh, dear! Is that what he is? That would explain why he broke into his home. Or did he break in? It seemed like he had a key. Either way, it makes perfect sense that a homeless person would seek shelter on a snowy night like this. What would have led him to that? Again he searches his memories and again nothing comes. At first. But then:

_Ford’s hands shake as he searches through various drawers in the kitchen. Come on, come on! Where is it? Where is it? He used to have a whole pack of them for crying out-! Ah ha! He draws out the post card for Gravity Falls. He pulls out a marker and scribbles ‘Please Come’ in big letters and oh god, oh god – he hopes Stanley will come. Please, please come…_

Stanley is…here.

Stanley is here!

Stanley…he…he contacted him!

Ford’s eyes widen as his first true memory comes. He wrote a postcard! He wrote the words ‘please come’ and he sent it to – to this person! To Stanley! And he came! While negative emotions have made the walls bleed water, he’s never felt such positive emotions as to know whether or not they affect his surroundings.

Apparently they do, because Stan stops. He freezes and sniffs at the air. He sniffs and then suddenly he turns and chucks the tumbler he’d been drinking from against a wall. It shatters and Ford says the first stupid thing that comes to mind, “Hey! That was part of a set!”

And how and why he remembers something as stupid as that he’s not sure, but hey, another memory! Not that it matters. Nothing matters as Stan looks miserable. So, so miserable - his face etched with grief as he mutters, “Well, fuck, of course he didn’t take care of himself because he’s DEAD! He’s dead, you stupid son of a bit-!”

The last word cuts off as if Stan’s just recognized he’s talking to himself. But he’s _not_ just talking to himself. Ford wishes he could convey that. He also wishes he could say that he DID take care of himself, but that would be the biggest lie in the universe. He doesn’t even need his memories to know that.

Because Stanley is right. He’s dead, so, taking care of himself obviously wasn’t a big priority. A noise leaves Stan, something like a sob, and it makes Ford ache. He doesn’t really remember him, barely knows him, but that sound, it eviscerates him. It doesn’t seem like a sound Stan would make. Hearing it now and being unable to offer anything…

Ford can’t say with certainty if his sanity is valid, but his sense of decorum is clearly still intact. He wants to offer some sort of assurances, even if they would also be nothing but lies. How can he reassure this stranger he’s fine? First off, he’s dead and second, he’s a ghost with no memories. A ghost forced to haunt his old home. Neither is very reassuring, but both are the truth.

Stan suddenly seems transfixed by something and Ford realizes he left his journal on the couch. He goes to grab it, but Stan beats him to it. Stan’s body also intersects with his ghostly one and that’s beyond weird. The pressure he’s felt before from phasing through objects pushes at him again, but this feels different. Primal. Odd. He’s not sure he likes it. As such, he immediately draws back and allows Stan to freely take up the book.

Stan sits on the couch and flips through the journal and Ford wants to scold him about how this will hurt his eyes. Why hasn’t he bothered to try and turn on the lights? Ford knows they work. He knows the electricity is still flowing, because he’s flicked the lights on and off several times. Mainly because he can and, again, it feels good to affect things – even if they’re mundane. In fact, the only reason the lights weren’t on when Stanley arrived was because Ford didn’t see the point in it.

Death makes you realize a lot of things don’t really have much of a point. Or maybe that’s the depression that comes from realizing you’re dead. Either way, there’s no reason Stanley shouldn’t turn the lights on. But he doesn’t. He just uses the flashlight, carefully moving it along the pages and it’s clear Stan is reading, but not _really_ reading. His eyes just sort of sweep over the pages and then his fingertips are there, pressing over Ford’s cursive scribbling on the page.

And even with how dark it is; Ford can see the sheen of unshed tears in his eyes. What is this Stanley thinking? If only he could see him, hear him. Ford sits cross legged across from him and wills Stan to see him. But of course he doesn’t. He just flips through the book and lets out a bone weary sigh. He falls back on the couch and looks wretched until sleep takes him.

Ford watches him succumb to sleep, Stan’s eyes closing, the book clutched to his chest. Stan’s mouth falls open and he snores and Ford feels another positive emotion. Affection. It wells up in him, because Stanley snores like a dying rhino. And the snoring, well…it’s the first real sound he’s heard in a long time that’s made him feel alive.

It’s a real sound coming from a real, living, breathing person. He listens to it as he gets to his feet and notices the broken glass with dismay. Well, might as well _do_ something. He sweeps up to the glass and finds, with some effort, that he can almost feel out each broken piece. Latent telekinesis? It would make sense – many ghosts have such abilities. Or at least they do according to what he read in his journal.

He tries to pick them up this way, to just think of them. He sees some soft glinting and wonders if it’s working. But since no pieces immediately fly into the air, he decides to try it another time. Once the glass is cleared away and disposed of, he goes to Stanley again. The light bouncing off the snow outside does a better job highlighting this man. He’s wearing ragged clothing, dirty clothing. He’s also shivering in his sleep. Honestly! Who doesn’t take of such basic needs?

Again, funny. A person who clearly died criticizing a living person for poor decisions. Especially poor decisions regarding health. But he knows the criticisms come from a warm place, an affectionate place. He…cares for Stanley. He doesn’t remember it, he just knows it. He knows it because he wrote him, he asked him to come.

And he did.

Stanley is here. He came. And now he’s not alone anymore. He’s not…not just haunting some abandoned home. He has someone. Ford finds a blanket and quickly drapes it over Stan. The snores actually petered out slightly under this attention; Stan lets out a pleased, comforted sound. Ford decides to leave him to his slumber, not wanting to hover over him like some grim phantom.

+

 

While Stan is sleeping, Ford takes to sitting on the top of the stairs to think. Stan’s here. For how long, Ford cannot say, but having him here opens up so many possibilities, possibilities he would never have thought of otherwise. Like communication. True, he doesn’t remember himself, but maybe Stanley remembers him. Maybe Stanley can tell him who he is.

Perhaps he should write a detailed note? While he can manipulate objects, he’s never really thought to try and write anything. Just when he considers getting a pen he hears the shower click on. Stan must be awake. Without thinking, Ford finds himself going into the restroom. He sees the dirty clothes on the floor and grimaces. What a mess! And he’s just recently cleaned this place up too! Well…he cleaned the top floor, at least.

He picks up the clothes and folds them, even though what they are really in need of is a good washing. Ford looks at the drawn shower curtain and realizes (rather belatedly) that Stan is, ah, _naked_ in there. And Ford just came into the room like this is normal. Christ; is he a stranger or is he family? And if he’s family, could he possibly be…

Ford checks his fingers again. No wedding ring. But maybe he doesn’t wear one. Maybe he doesn’t feel the need to. But then, Stan could be related to him in a much more innocuous fashion. They could be brothers. This thought seems right, but Ford doesn’t know. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t find Stan attractive. Attractive; and he was in his room. He went straight to it and slept in there, on the couch, but if he’d slept on the bed…

_Ford lies on the bed, skin slick with sweat, hand working over his long, hard length. His eyes are sealed closed as he gasps and shudders. It’s been too long. Far, far too long since he’s done this. Since he’s given into his base desires. But he can’t help himself! He thought of him again. He swore he’d never think of him again, but he did and his hand picks up speed as he groans his name, “Stanley!”_

Ford quails under this new memory. Two concrete memories in one night! And both caused by Stanley! Stanley who, obviously from this new memory, is indeed someone he cares for in a romantic fashion. Certainly a sexual one and Ford wonders if it’s possible for ghosts to blush. To distract himself he goes and retrieves some pajamas. He doesn’t think Stan should change back into his earlier, filthy rags.

 He puts the pajamas on the counter near the sink when he realizes he’s acting like he’s alive. Like he’s catering to some guest in his home. And not even a guest so much as a…

He looks in the mirror to see nothing but condensation and he wonders…he wonders. He carefully writes: _You came_. He looks at the words, wonders if Stan will see them, if he’ll understand them. Honestly, he wrote them without thinking and then Stan’s out of the shower and he’s – oh, okay! Um! Ford immediately turns his back and concludes that ghosts can indeed blush.

Ford saw Stanley naked. All of him. No wonder that memory came to mind. Frankly, he’s disappointed he didn’t get a more, ah, vivid memory of the two of them together. Because Stanley’s well, he’s…well…

Grimacing, Ford wishes he could construct more coherent thoughts when he hears a loud inhale behind him. He turns and Stan is white, looking at the mirror. Ah ha! He sees the words! He sees…

Ford immediately realizes he’s an idiot. The words – how short they are, how cryptic! Ugh! He’ll probably scare him off! Stan has had yet to move though, so Ford acts quickly. There’s not much space left to write, so he quickly adds: _Ford_.

Stan watches him write and grows paler; “Ford?”

Ford nods, even though he knows Stan can’t see him. But apparently this helps as Stan looks around wildly, “Ford? Are you…here?”

Another nod, another moment to realize nods can’t be seen. Ford grunts and dashes from the room. Pen and paper! He’d barely formed the idea, but he has to find them and he has to find them fast! Various things fly about and he’s sure he’s making noise and he hopes it doesn’t scare Stanley off, doesn’t make him think of leaving. He finally finds a pad and paper and he writes a quick message.

In his excitement he damn near lobbies the pad at Stan’s face. Stan curses when it smacks him, but he sees the pad on the ground and picks it up, reading it aloud, “ _I’m here. I’m Ford. I died but I woke up here_.”

Again he looks around. He blinks at the pad and puts it down. Ford picks it up and Stan cries out, “Holy shit!”

Ford’s not sure why at first when he realizes it probably disappeared when he picked it up. That’s what happened with the journal. He wants to exclaim ‘abracadabra’ even though there’s no real reason past making a lame joke that Stan can’t even hear. But while Stan can’t hear him, Ford can easily hear Stan, “O-okay, um…F-Ford? Can…can you hear me?”

Ford decides to keep the pad but writes on one page ‘ _Yes_ ’ and then rips the page from the pad. He rolls it into a ball and tosses it to Stan.

Stan doesn’t startle as much this time, merely grabbing the crumpled ball and unfurling it, “ _Yes_. Okay…okay. You…you can hear me. You can…fuck. Fuck, Ford…”

Stan runs a hand down his face and looks…gutted. Ford feels awful and quickly writes and tosses another message. Again, Stan reads it aloud, “ _Don’t be upset_. Psh, yeah, okay, Sixer. You’re here, telling me yer dead and a ghost and not to be upset. Give that a long, hard thought, you idiot!”

Another note: _Sixer_?

“Yeah, you know…”

 _I don’t_.

“Huh?”

Ford hopes Stan won’t get irritated by how long it takes him to write out the next message, especially since it is so very important. Instead of rolling it up, he neatly slides him a whole page so he can read it more easily. Stan picks it up and frowns as he reads:

_I don’t remember everything. I know my name is Ford. I know this is my house and I know I’m dead. But I don’t remember how I died or how I got here. I know I’m a scientist and I know I wrote you. I asked you to please come._

The last bit really seems to get to Stanley. He chokes over the words ‘please come’ and is barely able to say them aloud. He doesn’t look up from the page, but instead presses it to his face, drawing in a ragged breath, “Yeah, yeah. I know ya did. I shoulda come…god, but I should of…I’m so sorry, Sixer. God forgive me, I’m so…”

He can’t seem to say more and Ford wishes he could touch him, wishes he could hear him speak. Instead he merely writes another missive and slides it to him. He nudges Stan’s foot with it. Stan drops the page he’d been covertly crying into to grab the other. He sniffles, “ _Don’t be sorry_. _It’s okay_. Okay…Ford…how can anything be okay when you’re-?”

Suddenly there’s a loud noise. It’s like a slamming door, but worse. Much, much worse. It’s this awful, thick thudding that’s coming from downstairs. Both Ford and Stan react to it, Stan asking, “Ford…are…are you doing that?”

“No,” Ford says, even though Stan can’t hear him. He gets to his feet and goes to the top of the stairs. Something…something is skittering in the dark. And for the first time, he feels something that isn’t just an emotion. He feels a…a presence. They’re not alone. There’s someone…some _thing_ …else here. Ford thought he was alone in haunting the Shack, but now he knows – he innately knows – that he’s not. And he can’t explain, can’t explain how he knows, but he quickly grabs the paper and writes a message.

He tosses it to Stan who reads it and pales:

_It’s The Other. Please stay here. Stay where it’s safe._


	3. Chapter 3

“Ford?” Stan asks into the cool darkness. There’s no answer and he realizes how stupid it was for him to have even spoken. If Ford could answer him verbally, he would. Ford…

Stan looks down at the scraps of paper scattered around him. He picks a few up and quickly scans the hastily written words. It _does_ look like Ford’s handwriting, but how can this be real? A ghost? Seriously? Stan doesn’t believe in that kinda crap. Ghosts, ghouls, goblins – that was all Sixer’s department. Ford likes… _liked_ the supernatural, not Stanley.

The only thing Stan’s experienced that’s even close to supernatural was when he managed to get away from Rico in the nick of time, and that was more luck than anything else. Well, luck and a trunk so rotted with rust that his teeth could chew through it. He’ll never forget that awful, bitter taste of metal. If he thinks about it, he can still feel it on the back of his tongue, along his gums – god knows they both bled enough. And his teeth in general – they’re probably wrecked now. He’ll probably have to get dentures someday, what with the bad dental care he has.

Although he’ll take bad dental care over being shot any day, and he’s pretty damn sure Rico was taking him out some place to shoot him. Shoot him and bury his body in an unmarked grave and nobody would’ve known not even Ford, yet here’s Ford – the dead one. Stan swallows thickly as he runs his fingers over some of the ink. It’s still fresh and it smears slightly. Smears over the words:  _I know I wrote you_.

Of course Ford would remember that. Apparently he’s a blank slate, but that one? Oh, naturally that one’s clear. Naturally he remembers how Stanley _failed_ him. How Stan keeps failing him over and over again. It started with the science fair and it just continues. Stan can’t count the number of times he called him, heard Ford’s voice and just hung up because what could he say? What could he do? But maybe if he’d done something, said something, maybe if he hadn’t been such a goddamn coward Ford would still be…

Stan picks up the last sheet of paper and re-reads it: _It’s The Other. Please stay here. Stay where it’s safe._

His face sets with grim determination. Stay where it’s safe? No. No, he’s not just going to stand by while Ford puts himself in some sort of danger. Dead or not, ghost or not - Ford’s his _brother_ , his _twin_ , his _blood_. Ford is his to protect. He’s failed him too many times to count. Not again, _never_ again. Stan gets to his feet and starts towards the stairs when he catches sight of the liquor.

A nasty demon squirms inside him, whispering that another drink might give him courage. He squashes it. He’s not falling down that rabbit hole again. But what if…what if this is all some alcoholic haze? Maybe he’s imagining…? He looks down at the papers again. No, he touched them; he felt them in his hands. This is _real_. As crazy and as bizarre as this is, it’s real. It’s real and he has a job to do – a job that he’s already failed more than once. Protect Ford.

Stan tromps down the stairs, ready to fight. He doesn’t give a shit who this ‘Other’ is; they’re not going to hurt Ford! Stan hits the first floor and doesn’t see a damned thing. Granted, it’s pitch black, but there’s no drooling monsters or hunching, suspicious shapes he can make out in the darkness. He wanders from room to room and when he catches sight of a cane, he grabs it, having it at the ready.

The polished wood feels good in his hand as he levels it like a bat, ready to take a swing if necessary. He wonders idly why Ford has the damned thing. Maybe he injured himself at one point? The thought causes a hysteric sort of sound to leave him. Yeah, he was injured alright. His heart clenches but he ignores it – yeah, Ford’s gone, but he’s still here. In some fashion. And that’s all that matters.

To be honest, this situation – no matter how improbable – is keeping Stan going. He sure as fuck doesn’t know what he would’ve done if this hadn’t happened. God, please don’t let this all be a dream. Please don’t let him wake up tomorrow still in Rico’s trunk or face down in a dirty motel somewhere. Or worse, fuck, even _worse_ – wake up tomorrow on that couch upstairs, all of this a delusion brought on by grief. He couldn’t bare it – to wake up and face the fact that Ford’s just…dead. Dead and gone.

The idea of not talking to him again, not seeing him again…not that he can see him now, but dammit – he’ll take scrawled, ghostly notes over nothing. To have nothing at all – to be completely cut off…

There’s an ominous thud behind him and he curses, whirling around. There’s nothing behind him, nothing at all and he scowls. He thinks about calling The Other out but doesn’t. Instead he moves towards the sound, cane still raised. He finds himself in wide, empty room, moonlight dappling in through a window. It seems to almost highlight a door that’s half opened.

Stan goes to the door and opens it further. It doesn’t creak on its hinges or anything like that, but touching it irrationally fills him with dread. He sees a set of very long stairs descending downwards into a deeper darkness. What the hell is down there? Some kinda basement? Stan thinks of going upstairs to retrieve his flashlight and take the trip downwards when suddenly the door slips from his grasp. 

It throws itself as far back against the wall as it can and an unseen force pushes him backwards. It’s as if he’s been barreled down by some invisible animal and he lets out a woof of air as he falls back on his ass, the cane knocked from his grip.

The forceful rush grows, becoming a savage wind that billows strongly, shaking the glass in a nearby window. The sound sets Stan’s teeth on edge. The window rattles roughly in its frame then punches outwards, tiny slivers of crystal raining out towards the snow. Stan quickly scrambles to his feet, which is a good thing considering the broken glass suddenly propels itself back inward.

The shattered bits land like a fine dust on the floor, sparkling before him for but a second when they all start to _move_. The individual pieces begin viciously scraping at the wood paneling, digging into it. They scratch like claws, burying themselves deep, splinters appearing as they’re slowly, irrevocably drawn back towards the doorway.

They tumble down the steps into the dark, making clinking sounds as they descend further and further into the black abyss. The door then slams shut of its own accord. Stan stares at it, eyes as big as dinner plates. The knob wriggles, then turns as if by some unseen hand. It opens just that little bit, opens right to the spot it was before and Stan’s done.

He dashes upstairs faster than he would have thought his legs could take him. He bursts back into the bedroom, shutting the door behind him and falling back against it, breath coming in rapid succession.

“…the fuck?” he hisses, rubbing one hand at his forehead, “Fuck I just see?”

Stan’s breathless, dazed, and he turns, locking the door. Locking the door. Ha! As if that’ll stop whatever the fuck’s on the other side, whatever the fuck is downstairs. Downstairs…Ford…

“You stupid, motherfuckin’-!” Stan punches at the wall near the door, his fist going through the weak plaster. He curses a blue streak, his left hand throbbing from the left hook he just threw. Good. He deserves it. He deserves to feel the pain. He just went downstairs to protect Ford and what does he do the moment he sees something out of the ordinary? He turns tail and runs. Runs like a little bitch and the liquor from earlier seems to almost wink at him, as if to say: See? Told you. Now come on…take a drink. You’ll feel a whole lot better.

Stan charges over to the decanters and picks one up, more than ready to hurl it like he did the tumbler from earlier. Instead…instead he weighs it in his hands (one of those hands pulsing in agony) and contemplates it. Maybe…maybe one more drink _would_ be a good idea. Maybe…maybe he’s just lost his mind. It makes perfect sense. His brother is dead. Ford is dead. So, he’s gone off the rails. Makes perfect sense. He’s been done with life for a long time now. Done with sanity, happiness…maybe this is all there is.

Misery.

Misery and despair, depression and loathing and he pops the top of the decanter, the scent of good whisky wafting up to him and he hadn’t even noticed before, hadn’t even noticed it was whiskey because he’d wanted a drink so bad and he wants one badly again. It’ll help, it’ll make him feel warm, make him feel loose, lost, make him forget.

He’s just about to pour himself one when he hears the faucet in the bathroom turn on. He blinks and licks his lips. Slowly, very slowly – he puts the decanter down. He walks into the bathroom to find the notepad sitting to one side of the sink. He looks at the careful cursive, lips twitching.

_Stanley,_

_You shouldn’t have gone downstairs. You could have been hurt. Thankfully The Other was just putting on a show. I didn’t see it. It didn’t come upstairs. But it did rattle its saber at us._

_Writing that…it makes me remember something._

_I seem to remember some child with a lot of band-aids all over him? We would play this game…I think we were pirates? Anyway, I just remember this kid with a fake plastic sword waving it at me and talking with a lot of ‘arrgs’ and ‘ye vast’s’ – silly seafarers talk. He wore this really cheap eyepatch and he’d move it from eye to eye…_

_Do you know who I’m talking about? Was he a friend of mine? My brother? My cousin? My class mate? Anyway – we played games and I think that’s what The Other was doing. Playing a game. I think it likes games. But its games are dangerous, I just know it._

_I don’t want anything bad to happen to you._

_I know we don’t know one another well (Or maybe we do? – I don’t know, you’re new to me right now at least) but I like having you here. It’s been lonely since…_

_…I feel silly writing this, so! To sum up! I witnessed you hurting your hand. Please wash and patch it up. I have some iodine and antiseptic under the sink, as well as some bandages! I would try to do it for you, but I’m not sure I can manage that much energy…getting very worn out just writing all this._

_Please._

_Ford._

“Iodine? What are you, Sixer? An eighty-five year old woman?” Stan snorts, “I ain’t using that crap! I’m in enough pain as it is.”

Still, Stan reaches under the sink and pulls out the antiseptic and bandages. He winces as he cleans up, blood and little flecks of plaster circling the drain. He puts on the cream and pulls on the bandages as best as he can, “That iodine shit stings. Why wouldja ever wanna use that stuff? You musta picked it up from Gram Gram. Pops’d be proud, being his mother and all.”

Stan pauses at that, sighing. It’s almost as if he can hear Ford’s question, “Yeah, ‘bout that memory. That was me. I’m your brother. And we did used ta play pirates before…”

He trails off as a lightbulb clicks on above his head. Ford doesn’t know. He doesn’t know why he and Stanley fell out. Technically, he doesn’t know anything. Stan will tell him. Of course, he’ll tell him. He’ll have to eventually and he’s not going to lie to him but…well, he doesn’t have to tell him right this second, does it? Stan picks up with, “…thanks for pointing that stuff out. I’m glad you can talk to me or write me or whatever. Wish I could see you though.”

The notepad moves, pops out of existence, pops back with:

_I’m your brother?_

“Yup.”

_You’re sure?_

Stan laughs, “Sure I’m sure! We got the same face, ya ding dong! Figured you know that. We’re TWINS.”

The notepad is gone for a very long time. Finally:

_I can’t see my reflection. I didn’t know._

Stan looks at that and feels a well of sympathy. What would that be like? To be conscious, but to not even know what your own face looks like? He looks in the spot where the pad came from and hopes he’s facing Ford and not looking like a jerk talking to thin air, “Well, imagine me, but not nearly as handsome.”

There’s no laugh and Stan feels like someone’s stabbing him in the chest. Why did he expect a laugh? Ford can’t make noise, can’t talk to him – well, not in the traditional sense. He clutches the pad a little harder and in an instant hates everything. He hates it all with a brutal ferocity. Part of him wants to toss the pad to the ground and just walk out. Wants to just accept his brother is gone, but he’d never do that – not in a million years. He won’t abandoned Ford, he won’t let him down. Never again.

But…this is hard. So, so hard. He just…he wants his brother back. Really back. He wants him here, now, alive and whole and in his arms. Stan just wants to hug him, hear his voice and his stupid laugh and he’ll never have that again and it’s killing him. He drags in a loud breath and puts the pad back down in case Ford wants to use it again.

Sure enough, the pad disappears and comes back with:

_You have a mullet, automatically making me the handsomer twin._

The words cause a choked noise of amusement to leave Stan and he teases, “How do you know YOU don’t have a mullet? Or that you’re bald or somethin’?”

_I can’t see my FACE. Doesn’t mean I can’t see or feel the rest of myself. I have hair and it’s not too long, nor too short. It is, however, quite…fluffy._

Stan grins, “Yeah, yours was always a bit more unkempt than mine. Probably why you never wanted to grow it out. Me? I like it longer. This won’t always be a mullet – eventually I’m going to have luxurious hair like Krognar the Barbarian. You get a lot of babes with long hair.”

 _Somehow I doubt it_.

“You just wait and see, pal. I’m gonna get all the girls…” he stops abruptly, unable to continue. He finishes up with his hand and goes back into the bedroom. He has no idea if Ford is following him or not. He eyes the door. It’s locked. He’s safe…right?

He checks the knob and, sure enough, it’s tightly fastened. He looks at the couch and considers climbing on to it again when suddenly a light clicks on. He looks up, startled, to see a bedside lamp. Its glow is soft, comforting. The blankets and sheets on the bed move slowly, folded back by a ghostly hand. The pad rests on one of the pillows. Stan goes to it and picks it up to read:

 _Sleep here_.

Stan sits on the bed and hears the springs creak beneath his considerable weight. He puts the pad down and presses the fingers of his good hand to his eyes until he sees stars. His head hurts, his heart hurts – everything hurts. He speaks into the silence, “What I started sayin’ earlier…we used ta say it as kids. Don’t know if you remember…probably don’t. But it used to be our dream. Our stupid dream…getting girls, getting treasure, being adventurers…god, I haven’t thought about that dumb tub in years.”

Stan stares off into the middle distance, lost in thought until he feels something nudge his hand. It’s the note pad and he picks it up.

 _Tub_?

“Yeah. A boat. You and I were fixin’ it up. Planned on sailing around the world…like I said…stupid dream.”

 _Doesn’t sound stupid_.

“Ha….you sure you’re Ford?”

 _Well, I DO have six fingers and a relatively high intellect_.

“Psh – sounds like my nerdy bro alright.”

 _Half the reason this is so frustrating is that the science for this is all wrong_.

“Science? Stanford – you’re a friggin’ GHOST. What kind of science explains that?”

_Anything can be explained through science, if studied properly. And the science for this seems all wrong…_

“A lot of this is wrong,” Stan grumbles and almost tosses the pad but manages to restrain himself – he’s thrown around enough shit around for one evening. His eyelids are heavy and he lies down, head to one side.  He can’t believe he’s tired again – the grief maybe?

The lamp’s light warms his skin like a miniature sun. He closes his eyes, basking in it, “I wish I could see you. Wish I could talk to you…but no matter what form you’re in… I’m glad you’re here…”

He has no idea if Ford agrees. He imagines he does and he’s floating right on the edge of sleep when he mumbles, “…missed you.”

+

_I missed you too._

+

 

Stan is sleeping again. Ford hopes this sleep is longer and more restful than the one he had on the couch. Ford clicks off the light and carefully tucks his brother beneath the covers.

 _Brother_.

Stanley is his _brother_.

Well, this actually explains a lot. Like why Ford is a ghost. This is probably some form of punishment for his incestuous thoughts – thoughts he clearly had before he died if that one memory is anything to go by. That memory…and Stan’s in his bed now. Ford grimaces; probably not the best place to put him. Still, Stan deserves this. It’s obvious this has been hard on him. Not that it isn’t hard on _Ford_ ; but it’s got to be mind-blowing for Stanley.

And god knows it’d be worse if he knew how Ford felt about him when he was alive. When he was alive, he had inappropriate feelings for him and now? Now…Ford doesn’t know, to be honest. He did find Stanley attractive when he first saw him and he does like him, care for him – but he certainly doesn’t feel as, ah, carnal about him as he did in the memory. Will that come with time? Can he even feel carnality while a spirit? And why did he feel that way about his own flesh and blood? How could he?

But then, as earlier noted: Stan is attractive. He also has other qualities Ford finds himself drawn to – he’s funny and open minded and brave…probably _too_ brave. Ford can’t describe what it was like when he first felt The Other. He can’t even say why he called it that…but he knows that’s what it is. It’s this strange, inexplicable thing – it’s like a memory, but not quite.

It’s like when you’re a child and you just know certain things, feel certain things. You don’t necessarily learn exactly what they are until later, but somehow you identify them. This is how it is with The Other. Ford doesn’t know why he didn’t feel it before, why he didn’t know about it until Stan arrived, but now he knows. The Other is here and it’s haunting this place just as he is. It’s not alive, whatever it is – but it has power, influence.

It’s an insidious creature, full of anger and hate and other dark emotions. They roll off it like an energy, filling the air, and when Ford told Stan to stay upstairs, to stay where it was safe he meant it. He went down the stairs alone and was easily drawn to the door. Again, not exactly memories, but just knowledge filled him. Knowledge that said that behind the door was steps and those steps led down, down, down. Levels, layers…they’re beneath the foundation of the Shack. Ford knows it.

And he doesn’t know how exactly he knows, but he does. The Shack is just a cover. Beneath it…Ford doesn’t know what’s down there – he can’t quite remember, but he knows it’s something big and important. No wonder he lost his sanity at one point! He’s a ghost now and he feels like he’s going to lose it again! The crazed desire to just answer all these questions, to just get his memory back and put everything to rights is eating him alive.

Either way, he went downstairs and faced the door and while he couldn’t see The Other, he knew it was there. Could almost hear its mocking voice and again, memories boiled just under the surface, trying to get out. What was it The Other would say? It…spoke to him once. Ford’s sure of it. What was it? What was it? The Other and he…they were tied in some fashion. They still are. Ford knows it with every ghostly atom he possesses and he might have found out if Stanley hadn’t appeared.

Once Stanley was in the picture, everything happened in a heated blur. The door snapping open, the strong wind, the broken window and crawling glass. Ford witnessed all of it the same way Stanley did. Even as a ghost, he didn’t see anything extra. He didn’t see ectoplasmic discharge or shadowy tendrils or anything that would identify The Other. But that was who did those actions – he’s sure of it.

He’s also sure more than ever that they are tied, because once Stan fled Ford felt the mood in the air shift. It went from dark and menacing to…satisfied. The Other had been pleased at upsetting Stanley, which just made Ford angry. How could such an awful thing live in the Shack? How could it take delight in Stan’s misery?

Which was why Ford followed Stan back upstairs and watched in horror as his brother hurt himself. Ford cried out at him to stop but, naturally, went unheard. And then Stan had eyed the alcohol and Ford could practically hear his thoughts. It’s why he found the notepad and wrote him as swiftly as possible – he didn’t want him to be tempted. It was clear Stanley was struggling and Ford didn’t want that.

And writing him proved to be a good thing, seeing as it did spark a memory. Perhaps not a very useful one, but as far as Ford is concerned, at this point, any memory is a useful memory. Better to have some sort of past than none at all. Even if this revealed past uncovered the fact that Ford was a pervert. Maybe still is?

After all, Ford hasn’t left the room. He’s sitting on the couch just thinking about all of this. He looks down at the notepad in his hands. There has to be an easier way to communicate with Stanley. But how? He looks at his twin to see he’s not snoring this time. But even in sleep, he just looks so drawn, so exhausted. This has been a tough day for him – coming to his dead relative’s house, finding out said relative is not so dead and that there’s another, more malevolent presence on the property.

Not to mention it’s clear he’s had a difficult life before this. Drinking, anger issues, dirty clothing - none of it adds up to anything good. Why? How did he end up this way? Why didn’t they finish fixing up the boat together?

Granted, Ford can’t really see himself doing that. It doesn’t…doesn’t feel like that would be his dream. While it’s clear he has…had romantic inclinations towards his twin, it’s hard to imagine himself living a life at sea. He doesn’t quite know who exactly he is yet, shoddy memories and all that, but sailing off to hunt treasure…it just doesn’t sound like him?

Ford breathes in deep and looks over at Stan again to see he looks more peaceful. Well, no matter what previous trials and tribulations Stanley had to go through, it’s good to see him doing better now. He’s cleaned up and resting well and whatever unearthly thing lurks beneath the Shack seems to have receded back to whence it came.

So, things have to pick up somewhat, right?

Ford smiles bitterly. Funny to be so optimistic when you’re a ghost. He rests his head back and sighs. What the hell are they supposed to do now? What does the future hold? He doesn’t know and, in some ways, that worries him most of all.


	4. Chapter 4

Stan wakes up to the acrid scent of burnt toast.

He groans and rolls over. The bed is so soft and comfy, the blankets and pillow cushioning him like a cloud. The air around him is just slightly chilled, a warmth slowly seeping into it as if a source of heat has just entered the atmosphere. He can’t remember the last time he’s had such a restful night in a motel – maybe he won’t skip out on paying this time. He slowly opens his eyes and realizes he’s not in a motel. This place is too ritzy for that…a hotel? He can’t afford a hotel…

Wait, this isn’t-? Where is he? His eyes open wider, scan around and everything about his life falls back into place. Oh yeah. Inherited house, dead brother who is not quite dead, and a big, bad beast down in the basement. The confusion of sleep disappears as he sits up and breathes in deep. That burning smell…is the monster setting bread on fire? Why in the hell would it do that? That’s not very menacing and its actions last night were more of the menacing variety.

“Ford?” he croaks and then smacks a hand to one side of his face, dragging it down slowly. _Idiot_. _He can’t answer, remember_? His thoughts grumble before adding conciliatory, _well…least, he can’t answer in any kind of conventional way_. Stan sees the notepad resting on the sofa and gets up, hissing as the cold floor hits his bare feet. He really needs to try and find some socks.

Stan picks up the notepad but there’s nothing new written on it other than what was already there last night. Still, seeing the words is some comfort. It’s good to see them in the clear light of day and to recognize, once and for all, that he’s not crazy. That Ford really _is_ a ghost and talking to him and oh boy, he really wants to laugh at the state of his life right now where _this_ constitutes as _sane_. He puts the notepad down and peeks out the window.

The snow is still coming down hard, the ground outside a long stretch of pristine white. It hurts his eyes just to look at it all, but damn if it isn’t pretty. The naked tree branches are weighted down with mounds of snow, curved and bending towards the earth as fat, fluffy flakes rain down. Part of Stan still has that childish excitement when he sees it – days off from school, hot cocoa, building snowmen and having snowball fights…memories of a happy life long since gone.

He sighs and draws back from the window. He goes to the door and tries the knob to find it locked. Oh yeah…last night…is it safe to go down there? What if The Other is waiting for him again? What if it does something else to terrorize him? Stan looks back at the notepad and, while he feels dumb, asks, “Ford? You here?”

Stan keeps his eyes on the notepad. It doesn’t move. Great. He’s talking aloud to himself. He wishes there was some better way to keep track of his invisible twin.  Looking at the locked door again he decides to throw caution to the wind and unlocks it. However, as he makes his way down the stairs he makes sure to do so loudly, just to give the creature a heads up in case it’s planning on messing with him. Better to get any possible haunting kinda shit out of the way now rather than later.

To be honest, he’s not in the mood to deal with any spooky stuff. Well, past Ford, but Ford isn’t spooky, so much as heartbreaking. And considering most of his life runs in that vein, he’s used to that. Desensitized to it, even. Granted, he was a bit overwhelmed by it the other night. In fact, looking back now he’s a little embarrassed. He was damned overemotional at best and a crybaby at worst. But that’s all behind him now. Now it’s a brand new day, bright with the promise of…something.

And something is better than nothing, so Stan walks around with a pretty confident air. Not to mention that the light also helps – it had been very dark last night and if horror movies have taught him anything, it’s that scary things tend to stick to the dark. The Shack is certainly not dark now, white light pouring in from every available window, making it so he can get a much better look at the place.

It’s not that much different from what he could glean with his flashlight. The Shack is still a cluttered hodgepodge, but now he can pick out some homier touches, like plush furniture, a fire roaring in the fireplace (Ford must’ve started that this morning), and some paintings on the walls. He catches sight of one painting that’s a sail boat and it makes him smile. Maybe Ford really didn’t think their dream was that dumb. If only they had had the chance to live it.

The sounds of someone moving about draws Stan into a tiny kitchen alcove where it’s clear the burnt toast smell originated. There’s blackened toast smoking to one side on the counter, along with a collection of broken eggshells. A wooden spoon moves of its own accord in a skillet on the stovetop and and while just yesterday this would have sent Stan screaming into the foothills, today it merely makes him smirk.

The sight gives him a vague idea of where Ford’s standing and he’s sure it’s Ford, because there’s no way The Other is trying to make him scrambled eggs. He takes a seat at the kitchen table and watches the spoon move, “Didn’t know ghosts ate.”

The spoon floats up out of the skillet and rests itself to one side. Stan’s not sure where Ford has gone until he hears the sound of chalk on a chalkboard. He turns to see that there’s a rolling blackboard behind him and he laughs. How’d he miss that? Must still need his coffee. The chalk quickly dances about, writing word after word, and Stan waits until it floats back down before reading it all.

_I don’t. I thought you might like breakfast. Eggs and ~~toast~~._

Stan snorts as he watches a thick line cross through the last word, “Yeah, noticed the toast’s toast!”

_Not funny._

“Really? Think it’s pretty damned genius. Speakin’ of geniuses – you may be one, but you certainly ain’t no Julia Child – the eggs are burning now.”

_W~_

The last bit is nothing more than a smear of chalk as Ford, no doubt, moves quickly over to the wooden spoon. It moves about with a manic energy, but it’s clearly too late. A nasty cloud of steam is rising from the skillet and a second unpleasant odor is added to the air. Stan just laughs and shakes his head. He has no idea if he’s running into Ford or not, but he gets up and makes sure the skillet is removed from the burner and transferred to the empty sink. He waits a few minutes to let it cool before clicking on the tap.

The sink groans and shudders before a nasty white sludge emerges. Stan wrinkles his nose at it. What the hell? The white gives way to something more brackish and he frowns – this doesn’t look like normal well water. This looks like something that would come directly from a lake. Stan licks his lips and wonders if this is Ford’s doing. After all, it’s not like they’ve talked much about how Ford…

Stan growls and just starts smacking at the faucet, annoyed. It’s not like Ford to be so obtuse. True, the guy’s not subtle, but thus far he’s been nothing but civil. There’s no reason he’d be making breakfast one minute and then going totally maudlin the next. Which means this sink is just acting up. One more good thump and the water changes, becoming normal and clear.

He washes out the gross skillet and turns to the fridge, “Probably best if ya just leave the cooking ta me, Sixer. Pulled a couple different jobs in food service – picked up a few tricks – nothing fancy, but certainly a sight better’n what you were trying. Not that I don’t appreciate the effort.”

Stan tosses open the refrigerator door to see a small carton of eggs, some random condiment jars, and not a whole lot else. He scowls and checks the freezer to see pretty much the same. Cursing, he opens the cabinets. Thankfully there’s more options here – a few random cans of vegetables, soup, and meat but it’s not going to be enough to sustain him long term.

The bread Ford used to make toast is a little questionable as well. The end of the loaf is starting to mold and Stan makes sure to discard that. He pops the two freshest looking pieces into the toaster and makes sure it’s set at a proper temperature. Then he checks around for anything fresh. He doubts he’ll find anything, but is surprised to see some potatoes and carrots to one side, as well as some fruit that hasn’t quite turned yet.

He makes sure to toss the mushy bananas and withered apples before he uncovers some oranges that are salvageable. He unpeels a few and sets the slices on a plate, as well as the properly cooked toast, which he butters with the one stick he found in the fridge. He’s just about to start looking for a coffee machine when he sees a mug float through the air. It rests next to his plate and he grins, “Well, well – guess brewing coffee is something you can handle. Maybe you’ll be a barista in your next life.”

The chalk sounds again:

 _How do you know this isn’t my next life_?

“Huh, good point. But is being a ghost any kinda living?”

 _I think_ , _I feel...in a fashion_.

Stan turns away from the chalkboard and starts picking at his food. He’d felt his stomach grumbling at one point, but now he finds the idea of eating unappealing. Next life – yeah, okay. Whatever. Ford doesn’t _have_ a next life. He has _no_ life. He’s just a spirit haunting this place. And Stan’s right alongside him.

But Stan’s _breathing_. His blood is flowing, body thick and material, strong bones beneath firm skin and a heart – a heart that’s beating and beating even if each beat is more painful than the last. He’s sitting here, in his thirties, alive and whole and completely, utterly _lost_. He drinks his coffee and tries to push the sadness away but it’s impossible. The weight of it settles heavily on his shoulders and he rubs at them, rubs at the back of his neck, face lowered towards the table.

He sighs and closes his eyes, asking one of the many questions he doesn’t want to ask, “Do you…? Do you remember how you died?”

He waits.

And waits.

Stan wonders if he’ll hear the chalk on the board. A large part of him doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to think about Ford’s death – no, scratch that. He doesn’t want _Ford_ to think about his own death. He doesn’t want his memory-troubled twin to relieve the last few moments of his existence. He doesn’t want to stir up bad feelings and bad thoughts. He also doesn’t want Ford to remember how much Stan fucked up.

Stan still plans on telling him if he doesn’t remember, oh yes, he’ll do that. He’ll run himself through when he has to, but not right now, not right now – please don’t let it be…

He winces as he hears the chalk move against the board. It moves for quite a long while. Once it stops, Stan lifts his head. He sees the oranges slices and toast and instantly feels nauseous. He doesn’t want to turn, doesn’t want to look, doesn’t want to read the answer whatever it might be, because he’s afraid. He’s more afraid now than he was last night. But he drums up his courage and finally turns to see what Ford’s written.

_No, I do not. However, there are several indicators that you are distressed. You have yet to eat and your demeanor is different. You should have your breakfast. I get the impression you have not had a proper meal in some time and I require you to be hale and hearty for today’s activities. I believe, with your help, that I can put together a device which will allow us to communicate in a much more reasonable fashion._

Stan’s eyebrows climb up at the last sentence, “Oh yeah? You gettin’ tired of writing so much? Too much of a ghostly work out?”

The chalk doesn’t rise again. Instead Stan’s plate makes a noise as its nudged closer to him. No words – written or spoken are needed, Ford’s intent clear. Eat. Stan picks at the toast and takes a bite. It actually does feel good to eat and his stomach makes a noise as if to agree with him. Ford’s not wrong; it’s been a while since Stan’s had a proper meal. Not that this meal is very proper, but it’s certainly more substantial than the candy bar a day he’s been living on for the past couple of weeks.

Money’s been tight since the whole Rico mess and what little he did have, he used to come here. As such, he’s totally broke. Broke enough that he knows he’ll have to get creative in order to get more food – much less anything else. He’s never been banned from Oregon before; maybe he can pick up some kinda work?

Anything that pays cash under the table would be preferable. Loads of trees out this way, winter snow – might be someone needs some lumber. He could cut down a couple of trees; sell some logs. He’s not a big fan of doing manually labor, but he’s done worse for money. A _lot_ worse. This train of thought makes the food he ate sort of swish about in his belly and he grimaces. The last thing he wants to do is toss up what little he managed to get down.

Best not think on the past. Or the future. He should probably just focus on living in the present, never mind the fact that that sort of thinking is probably what’s led him down so many bad roads. He’s a collection of poor decisions and crap choices. He gets up and puts his plate and unfinished mug of coffee in the sink.

 A device which will allow him to communicate with Ford, huh? Stan wonders what the hell that could be and he turns to the chalkboard, “Alright, Poindexter. I’m hale an’ hearty enough. What do you want me to do?”

 

+

 

Stan’s got his fingers deep inside the back of the weird radio Ford’s been instructing him to build and he growls when he, for what feels like the millionth time, hears the squeal of chalk on chalkboard. He’s reluctant to withdraw his hands, the part he’s trying to screw into place really small and really annoying when he feels something lightly slap the side of his head. He curses and draws back to see it’s a hand towel.

He tosses the towel aside and looks at the blackboard. It’s damn near covered in scribbles and overly detailed drawings. There’s hardly room for anything else and Ford hasn’t erased much. Apparently he thinks every little bit of it is important, but he’s managed to carve out a small space to write:

_No! That doesn’t go there! Move it two centimeters to the left!_

Stan runs both hands through his hair, ruffling it wildly, “You told me to move it to the right two seconds ago!”

_Clearly not or it would be written on this board. There would be a record of it._

“You probably erased it when I wasn’t looking, you lying son of a bitch!”

_According to you, we have the same mother, so-_

“Yeah, well,” Stan shakes out his hands, fingers slightly cramped from all the work he’s already done, “We do have the same mother and she could be a right bitch when she wanted to be! Like mother like son, huh?”

The hand towel flies up again and Stan deflects it, grumbling, “Fine, fine! To the left it goes, you sorry piece of-!”

Stan’s been grueling over this damned thing for what feels like an eternity and what’s Sixer been doing? Riding his ass via the blackboard. It’s like being back in school all over again – some scholarly overlord making him feel stupid when he _knows_ he’s not. Sort of. Kinda. Still, he’s starting to wonder if he even _wants_ to hear the bastard’s voice. Bad enough being yelled at in writing, does he really want it verbally?

Shaking his head, he pushes past his annoyance. He screws in the part like Ford instructed and then looks to the board again for the next set of instructions. He grabs a soldering iron he has to one side and carefully uses it, trails of thin smoke curling up into the air. According to Ford, these ‘improvements’ on this old hand radio should make it so they can talk to one another. Ford’s comments on this were funny to watch, the chalk bouncing around as if held on fishing wire as it floated towards the board and then away again.

It was clear he wanted to explain the deep, nerdy science behind it but recognized he didn’t have the time nor the space. Instead he was forced to sum it up as best he could and even then, it was still pretty nerdy and sounded like a lot of gobbledygook to Stan.

Something about electronic voice phenomena and how it connects to static, white noise and empty radio airwaves. Apparently most of what people recorded or thought they recorded was a lot of hooey, but Ford was certain with some alterations to the radio’s inner workings they could actually get something substantial – his voice.

Hence why Stanley is working on this piece of junk and cursing six ways from Sunday. Especially since it’s clear Ford’s the one who wants to do the actual work but can’t. Apparently while he can interact with material objects, this kind of work is a little too taxing on his ghostly abilities. Stan asked him how he knew this and got another rendition of the ‘excited dancing chalk’ as Ford tried to figure out how to answer as succinctly as possible.

Which basically just led to another paragraph of junk Stan could barely parse together. Something about category levels for ghosts and how it related to their power levels, followed by some scrawling about poltergeists and whether or not he could actually constitute as one and how he was worried he was just a ‘category one’ and how humiliating that would be and so on and so on.

To be honest, Stan doesn’t give a crap what ‘category’ his brother might be; all he wants is to hear his voice again. To hear his voice and talk to him – _really_ talk to him. To apologize for damn near everything and maybe…

Well, Stan doesn’t know what the hell the ‘maybe’ can lead to. Ford’s dead. No way he’s rejoining the living and breathing world. But to speak to one another, to have that connection again…it’s what keeps Stan working on this garbage. The bits and bobs Ford’s had him install are all strange and new to Stan.

Having had a variety of different jobs over the past couple of years, he’s seen his share of electrical gizmos. Hell, it’s how he cobbled together the Stan vac. But the parts Sixer’s got him working with – some of them _glow_ or have liquid swirling around inside them. Weird. They’re probably things Ford invented. He always was handy like that.

Handy, smart, strong – Sixer was a lot of great stuff. And now he’s gone and guess who’s left? The inferior twin. The runt. Stan shakes his head to himself. _Alright princess, time to stop feeling sorry for yourself! Yer this close to done with this piece of trash. According to the notes, you got just a few adjustments ta go. So keep it together and hurry up!_

With a nod he does just that and soon enough has the back of the radio is screwed into place once more. He fiddles with the various knobs – both old and new, trying to adjust it to the right frequency. He looks around him with harried eyes, “Hey Ford, you better be talking up a storm. Because if ya ain’t, I’m not gonna pick up squat!”

So far he’s greeted only with the crinkling of static and the occasional chirp of ads. There’s some weak buzzes of music and DJs, loads of garbled nothing and just when he’s about to lose all hope and chuck the damned thing he picks up something. It’s very light and almost lost and he scrambles with the tuning knobs, trying to hone in and amplify it just right.

“…ear m…”

“Ford?” Stan’s voice cracks because the little bit he got is Ford, right? It has to be. It sounds so much like him. Older, deeper. But that voice, he’ll never forget that voice.

“…St…ca…yo…hea…m…”

“Ford? Come on! COME ON!” he shouts and shakes the machine as if that’ll help. As if it’s a snow globe and if he shakes it hard enough the swirling snow inside will thicken before settling, landing into something pure and real. His thumb slides just that little bit beneath the ribbed edge of one of the knobs and he gets, “Sta..ley? Stanley?”

“Yes! Yes! Sixer! Stanford, I’m here! I’m here! I’m…” Stan chokes, throat thick with emotion as his brother’s voice rings out of the speakers, clear and whole, “Good! I’m glad we got it to-!”

“Shut up!” Stan breathes and he clutches the radio tightly to his body as if it’s a person, “Shut up, shut up. Just…just give me a-a minute…god…”

Stan hates how goddamn emotional he’s been lately. Even more so now, as he starts sobbing like a damned baby. But…it’s Ford’s voice. He can _hear_ him. Honestly, he was reaching a point where he thought he would never, ever hear his voice again and now he _can_. Never mind he just told him to shut up a second ago. The radio is hard and blocky, but he clutches it like a lifeline. He buries it into his chest and weeps. It takes him a moment before he can catch his breath enough to gasp, “T-t…talk…talk t-to…”

“Stanley…”

The voice is so warm and comforting. A wretched noise works its way out of Stan’s body as he grasps the radio tighter; running his hands all over it like it’s the most precious thing in the world. And it is. To him, it’s a lifeline, a tether. It connects him to the most important person he’s ever known and it’s warm and real. It’s substantial and it hums with life. _Life_. God, he wants Ford to _live_. He wants him here. He wants flesh and blood and bone.

But at least he has this. At least he has his _voice_.  A voice that wraps around him as it emerges from the speakers, “You did an excellent job, Stanley. While I enjoy writing, I find it a tedious manner of constant communication.”

A watery laugh bubbles up out of Stan, “I’d doubt this was you again after saying I did an ‘excellent’ job, but there’s no doubt this is you…you…Stanford…Christ…”

There’s a pause, nothing but a soft crackle or two of empty airwaves before Ford asks cautiously, “I…never complimented you?”

He sounds one part unsure and one part remorseful at the idea and boy; doesn’t that sting. Stan wipes at his eyes with the heel of one hand, still hugging the radio with the other, “You did. Back when we were kids. But later…”

“…did we have a-a falling out?”

“Something like that,” Stan sniffs, hoping he doesn’t have a trail of snot leaving his nose or anything from all his damn _crying_ as he murmurs, “But that don’t matter right now. Let’s just leave it, huh?”

“Very well,” Ford returns simply as if it all is oh, so simple before he continues, “After all, we have much more important things to discuss and ah! What a pleasure it is to _discuss_ things with you! I much prefer this to pad and paper or the chalkboard! Not to mention that I find all of this extremely fascinating! Did you know when I speak I don’t hear a reverb or an echo? One would think I would, since the radio is present, but I don’t! I seem to recall doing research on ghostly phenomena but why do you suppose-?”

“Hey, now that we can talk proper, you should know I ain’t a genius like you, Poindexter,” Stan offers with a  self-deprecating smirk, “But it just figures that even with your shoddy memory, you’d keep the smarts. Me, if I lost my memory? I’d probably just be a droolin’ idiot.”

“On the contrary! I think you would be a kind, warm man. Just as you are now.”

“HA! Kind? Warm?” Stan shakes his head and finally releases the radio, putting it back up on the counter in front of him, “Yeah, your memory _is_ shot. You don’t even know the half of what I’ve been up to while you and me have been apart. Those two words are about as far away from me as the earth is from the sun.”

“What time of the year is it?”

“Huh?”

“You said ‘as far as the earth is from the sun’. Well, depending on the time of the year it is and where we are on the planet, we could be closer to-”

Stan’s groan rings out loudly enough to cut Ford off as he rubs at his face and smiles again. God, is this _really_ what he missed? That’s a stupid question. Of course this is what he missed. He still misses it and he looks at the radio with bald affection as he mutters, “You’re sucha nerd.”

Ford doesn’t respond to that and Stan stretches as a thought occurs to him, “Speakin’ of warm – did you start the fire in the fireplace?”

“Yes. While I am unable to feel temperatures, I know you do not suffer the same affliction. The snow outside is still persistent, so I felt it best to introduce some heat. The shack’s architecture would suggest it’s drafty.”

“Eh, I’ve dealt with worse,” Stan grunts and Ford’s voice turns gentle, “Yes, I noticed your rather threadbare clothing. Since we are twins, do we have similar body types? I can provide you with much better clothing.”

“You want me to wear your clothes after spending the night in your bed? Kinky,” Stan jokes and he expects a laugh or maybe a protest. Instead the radio lets out a weird squawk that doesn’t sound like Ford’s voice at all. Stan frowns and fiddles with the device. What the heck was that? Did it pick up some weird signal? He bats the side and the squawk grows…lower.

The sound morphs into something darker, deeper. A groaning growl that makes the hairs on Stan’s body stand up on end. He swallows, “Ford? That you?”

The growling grows so loud that Stan has to cover his ears and his skin breaks out in a cold sweat, the noise hitting a frequency that sets his nerves on edge. But as quick as it began, it ends and Ford’s voice comes clear again, “Good lord! What on earth was that?”

Stan lowers his hands and eyes the radio suspiciously, “That…that wasn’t you?”

“No! I’ll…I’ll admit I was…slow on responding, but…that sound. Someone…some _thing_ else responded in my stead.”

“The-the Other?”

“Perhaps,” Ford sounds unsettled, “I did not think it had a voice of any sort. This is distressing. I don’t want it to break in on my frequency. We’ll have to tool with the settings more.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Stan murmurs and he looks around warily, “It…it ain’t up here, right?”

“No. I’m sure it’s still far below us in the dark recesses of the basement.”

“Fuck…what do we gotta do? Perform an exorcism or something?”

Ford laughs, “Nothing that extreme, I’m sure. For now, I suggest you merely avoid the room with the door that leads to its’ lair. We’ll adjust the radio and I’ll be more vigilant towards your protection. If I must, I’ll go face the creature and-!”

“You’ll do nothing of the sort!” Stan snaps, “You’re already _dead_ , Sixer, so I know you think nothing can hurt ya, but I ain’t willing to take that chance! I just got you back,” his voice stalls and he feels his heart trip up at those words, more so as he amends, “…sorta. I’ll take what I can get. So, you just stay put. I can take care of myself.”

“Says the man who showed up in rags,” Ford returns and Stan feels his ire rise up, but he pushes it back. He doesn’t want to fight. Instead he changes the subject as he looks around again, “So…where are you right now? Only bad thing about dropping the other stuff is now you’re even harder to nail down. Feel kinda dumb talking to thin air – not trying to meet your eyes or whatever.”

“Actually, you’ve done an eerily excellent job of ‘looking’ at me without looking at me,” Ford’s voice is full of pride and Stan feels his face flush. Ford. Proud of him. Yeah, right. He doesn’t think that’s ever happened. But then, this Ford doesn’t have much of a memory. He doesn’t remember how much of a screw up Stan is. So, Stan takes the compliment, “Must be the whole twin connection thing.”

“Perhaps.”

“But seriously…where are you right now?”

“Behind you.”

Stan immediately turns and then curses himself. Yeah. Like he’s gonna _see_ something. No. Not something. Ford. He wants to see _Ford_. He wants to see his brother standing there instead of empty air. He turns back to the radio. At least he can see this. He breathes in and tugs the radio close, hugging it again as Ford’s voice comes from it gently, “I’m…I…I hope you don’t mind…but…I’m hugging you back.”

Stan clutches the radio tighter, “You are?”

“Yes. I’m hugging you from behind. I’m pressed against your back.”

Tears come to Stan’s eyes again and he hates them with a vicious intensity. Hates his voice as it comes trembling from his thickening throat, “I don’t…I don’t _feel_ anything.”

“I’m sorry.”

Stan shakes his head to himself, hates the newest tear that’s managed to escape. Jesus Christ, he has to stop crying soon, doesn’t he? He has to…to get over this. But how can he? How can he get over this loss? It’s like there’s a gaping hole inside of him and it’s growing wider with each day. He just…he feels so goddamn empty. Lonely. Devestated. Eviscerated.

A whole part of him is gone and dead and buried. Missing. Lost forever. But not entirely. No, there are traces. Whispery threads. Ford’s still here. But he’s also not. It’s confusing and heartbreaking and Stan’s hugging the radio as tightly now as he did when Ford’s voice first came from it. It’s warm and humming and it vibrates against his chest as Ford’s voice emerges from it, “Stanley?”

“Yeah?” Stan gasps.

“Earlier, you-you asked me if I remembered how I died…”

Stan’s blood runs cold. A chill sweeps through him, his heart sinking as Ford continues, “I don’t. It’s…it’s funny. There’s only one way to be born, but millions of ways to die. Stanley…”

“ _Don’t_ ,” Stan croaks, begs; even as Ford asks, “How did I die?”

Stan starts shaking his head rapidly. He doesn’t want to answer. He doesn’t. But Ford’s voice comes again, patiently coaxing, “Stanley…”

“You… _aha_ …” the last comes out a desperate sound. One strangled with the breathlessness of someone trying not to give into another fit of sobs. Stan swallows hard, tries to collect himself. Finally he whispers, “…d-drowned. You…you drowned.”

Nothing answers Stan. The radio grows silent. Cold. Stan looks around him, eyes watery, “Stanford?”

No sound comes from the radio. Stan blinks away the unshed tears and looks up. He doesn’t know why but he feels…something. A sort of…electrical charge to the air. He looks at the wall across from him and it…it _ripples_. Or it seems to, beads of condensation forming on its surface and he realizes with some alarm that the walls around him are bleeding _water_. Little rivers dribble down the surface and he asks again, “St-Stanford? Are…are you doing this?”

A loud hiss issues form the radio followed by a dazed, “I’m…a memory…one of my memories….”

“Ford?”

“I’m…remembering…the lake…I…remember…”

The well of water raining down grows worse and Stan feels the radio digging into him, he’s hugging it so hard and then – much to his vast surprised – everything goes white.


	5. Chapter 5

Stan can’t move.

He can only stand there and watch. Watch as Ford paces back and forth erratically on a clifftop. Gravity Falls Lake is spread out below, a glittering dark diamond, that they are far above. Too far above. If someone were to tumble from this cliff and hit the waters below…

A few wispy snowflakes fall from the gray sky, disappearing into the mud and the dead, copper colored grass beneath Ford’s feet. Ford is still pacing and there’s something behind him, near the tree line. Stan can make out the unlit tail lights of a van and something else – a big, flat bedded dolly with a strange, glass and metal tube resting on it. The tube is large, rounded – it almost looks like a weird coffin and Ford is muttering under his breath and Stan can’t understand him.

Frankly, Stan can’t understand much of anything. One minute he was in the Shack and now he’s here, transported to a moment in time or a…memory. Ford had said he was remembering his death and now Stan’s…here? He’s in Ford’s memory? How is that possible?! But then, Ford’s a ghost that speaks to Stan via radio - so, really, Stan’s already through the eye of the needle; isn’t he?

He’s on the other side now – where the supernatural, no matter how unbelievable and bizarre is just…fact. Ford would probably refer to it as unexplained science and Stan clings to that, because that’s an easier pill to swallow. Science…this is some kinda weird science. Not just some magical mumbo jumbo. He’s in Ford’s memories and he’s just an observer, so he observes.

Ford walks around in circles, looks at the sky, touches the snow. He looks horribly haggard. There are dark circles under his eyes and he’s wearing a dirty trench coat and stained shirt. His tie hangs oddly about his neck, as if he’s been tugging on it too much and his hair is a wild, greasy rat’s nest, poking out in the craziest of directions. He’s got more than a five o’clock shadow going on his jaw and his mouth is moving, sometimes forming words, sometimes forming nothing.

He looks over the side of cliff and Stan stills; horror lacing him – is…is this it? Is he going to see Ford fling himself from the cliff? Hit the cold, fathomless, unforgiving depths below? But no, Ford doesn’t do that. Instead he stands there. Eerily still, like unmovable stone as he looks down, down, down. Then he rubs at his eyes –pushing his glasses up, almost knocks them completely off as he scrubs at the full length of his face. His mouth trembles and Stan feels his heart twist in his chest.

Stan wants to comfort him, wants to hold him close and tell him everything will be alright, but he can’t move. He can only watch as Ford’s eyebrows knit together and he nods to himself. Ford walks with firm resolution towards the dolly. He pushes it as best as he can along the uneven earth, wheels occasionally dragging in the dirt. It passes Stan and he looks down to see that that the tube it’s carting is coated in a layer of thawing frost.

Frost that’s melted just enough to allow Stan a good peek inside. He can just peer through the glass to see the contents inside and inside…what’s inside the tube…it’s unbelievable. It’s _Ford_. Ford is inside the glass coffin being rolled towards the cliff’s edge, but the person _rolling_ the dolly _is_ Ford. There’s two of them and Stan looks between the two with mounting horror.

How is this possible? How are there _two_ Fords?! And why is one a frozen popsicle? Stan looks at the unfrozen Ford, who is now kneeling down near the tube. He runs a hand over it and he’s muttering to himself again, nodding madly. Stan wonders what the hell is happening when suddenly everything spins, shifts, turns upside down on its head. His vision is filled with bright light and he strains to see through it, even as his arms rise to shield himself from the sheer magnitude of the light.

He squints, eyes watering and he can just make out movement. Movement that becomes a little easier to discern until he can see, albeit in a limited capacity. The moment in time seems to have propelled forward. He can’t see anything but one Ford, and one Ford only, standing on the cliff’s edge. Ford’s arms are outspread and he seems to fall in slow motion. Forward and just…falling. Falling and falling, toppling right over the edge and Stan reaches out with both hands, crying out even as his throat makes no sound, even as he’s engulfed in sightless whiteness.

 

+

 

Stan sucks in an extremely loud breath, as if he was submerged under water for a long period of time and just now he’s surfaced.  His heart is pounding loudly in his ears and his cheeks are damp from tears. His eyes hurt and it takes him a while before he can really come back to himself. He’s still clutching the radio and the rivers that had been running down the walls seem to have completely evaporated.

Warmth slowly creeps back into his bones as he finds his voice, “S-Sixer?”

The radio makes a few fuzzy sounds, zips and whistles, bursts of static before clearing up entirely, Ford speaking, “Yes.”

“What…what _was_ that?”

“It…I don’t know,” Ford mumbles, sounding as dazed and lost as Stanley, which is not at all reassuring. Ford’s supposed to know everything, isn’t he? Stan’s worry must show on his face, because Ford’s tone is more reassuring on the second go round, “I mean, I don’t know _entirely_. Clearly it was one of my memories and somehow you were transported into it, but the how and whys of that are…a little harder to explain.”

“There was two of you,” Stan looks down at the radio, peers into it as if looking into Ford’s face, “Can you explain that?”

“No. I’m-I’m afraid I can’t.”

“Two of you, Ford,” Stan’s hands tighten on the radio, grimacing as he continues accusingly, “And one of you was pulling a Snow White in a glass coffin!”

“…I don’t think that was a coffin…”

“Oh, shut up!” Stan barks and he unceremoniously tosses the radio up on the nearby counter. It makes a loud clatter, but it doesn’t break and Stan feels as if his insides are being scrambled. He’s thankful he didn’t damage the damn radio, but what the fuck?! What did he just witness? What was all of that? And he knows he shouldn’t be so mad at Ford – it’s not the guy’s fault he can’t quite remember, memory being what it is, but…

Stan inhales and tips his head back, eyes closed, “I watched ya, Ford…watched you…fall…”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

Silence falls between them and Stan’s head lowers to his chest, eyes still closed. It’s quiet throughout the Shack. So quiet Stan feels like he can almost hear the snow falling outside, can hear it building into bigger, colder mounds. Mounds that keep him trapped inside and oh, it’s not just that.

So much is trapping him inside. He feels _trapped_. Lost. Strangled and struggling, and he keeps seeing Ford’s outstretched arms, keeps seeing Ford’s trench coat billowing in the breeze behind him as he tips forward over the cliff’s edge. And when he doesn’t see that, he sees a frozen Ford. A Ford whose eyes are closed, eyelashes coated in frost - skin a soft, unnatural blue.

“There was two of you…and I don’t know how the fuck that’s possible or what the fuck it means or even if…if…” Stan looks at the radio suspiciously, “I hear yer voice coming outta this thing, Stanford. I hear you, but…is it-? Is it _you_ I’m talking to? Or is it the _other_ Ford? Which one are you? The one who fell? The one who froze?”

“I-” Ford starts, but Stan cuts him off, “How’d you die? Was it drowning? That’s what I heard from the lawyers and the police, but was it from throwing yourself off of that cliff or was it from being frozen? Didja take your own life or was it taken from you? _Did_ you die? Is it…is it even possible that you’re…that…that you might be-?”

Stan hates himself for it, but his heart surges up at the very thought. Hope, an insidious little demon, crawls up to cut off his breath. Could Ford _actually_ still be alive? Maybe this is all some sick, twisted joke. Maybe Ford’s always been alive. Maybe he’s just fucking with Stan in the worst way possible and if that’s the case…

But Ford’s definitive on the matter, “I don’t think so, Stanley. I’m dead, there’s no doubt about it. I have to be. How else could I be a ghost? And I promise you, that’s all I am. I’ve walked through enough things to know it.”

Stan’s rising heart sinks so hard and so quick he feels chilled with it. His throat throbs, his initial reaction to get all choked up and start fucking crying _again_ and goddamn it, he is _over_ the crying! So to distract himself he asks, “What’s that like?”

Ford doesn’t answer, so he elaborates, “Walking through shit.”

“It’s…odd, to say the least. There’s this weird pressure when I do it. While I don’t feel temperatures or need to fulfill the most basic of human needs, I can still _feel_ things. Emotions, pressures…and I can sense things, like The Other.”

“The Other,” Stan mulls over the creature, “You think it’s connected to this? Maybe that’s how there were two of you – maybe it…it somehow made itself look like you.”

“I suppose that’s possible,” Ford concedes, “But if that’s the case, you and I should both be on our guard. I don’t like the idea that it can emulate my form. It might attempt to trick you.”

“Huh, good luck to it,” Stan grunts, “It ain’t easy to get one over on Stanley Pines! I’ve been in the game too long for that.”

“The game?”

He nods, “Game called _life_ , Sixer. I’ve learned a lotta crap since you and me parted ways. Had to. Not easy to make it out there on your own without some tricks up your sleeve.”

“It’s you and-” The phrase is interrupted bluntly with, “You correct my grammar again, I’mma punch ya!”

“Stanley, you literally cannot touch me. I’m immaterial.”

“Yeah, but you’d feel the ‘pressure’ of it, right?” Stan air quotes ‘pressure’ and a laugh comes from the radio. It’s been so long since Stan’s heard that laugh, since he’s caused it, that he feels his lips tremble at the sound. That laugh…Ford’s laugh...the one that’s one part exasperated and two parts amused. The one that’s colored with affection. Affection for _Stanley_. God. Stan’s _missed_ that laugh.

“It’s possible I would,” Ford admits, “Still, I suggest you reserve your desire for physical assaults and focus elsewhere. You’ve been working hard today – on the radio, in the…the memory. Perhaps we should take a break. Do something less productive and more leisurely.”

“Such as?”

Ford doesn’t answer for a while and Stan picks the radio back up, his thumbs skirting under the knobs a little as he waits. Eventually his impatience overpowers him, “Well? What about it, Poindexter? You got any ideas? You still even here?”

“I’m here.”

“Where-?”

“I’m looking out the window.”

Stan turns to see nothing but the window and scolds himself for doing that yet again. He can see through the glass to the snowy world outside and he can just imagine Ford standing there, arms behind his back as he thinks. Finally Ford’s voice comes through the radio, “Did we play in the snow as children?”

The question brings misty memories and Stan sighs wistfully, “Sure. Mean, for the most part we were summer kids through and through. We were always out in the sun, getting redder than damned tomatoes, but we appreciated the winter time too. Ma used ta bundle us up in these snow suits…we could barely move, they were so friggin’ plush…but we’d waddle out and make snow angels and that sorta junk.”

“…I seem to recall seeing a snow suit when I was cleaning upstairs…”

“You’re suggestin’ I go out and play in the snow?” Stan’s voice is so incredulous he swears he can see Ford wince at it, even more so when his tone comes so sheepishly, “I was suggesting you and I both go out and…and enjoy the weather, but if you have no wish to-”

Stan cuts him off with a hearty, “Sounds good,” because he doesn’t like the idea that he hurt his brother. Especially not when they’ve been getting along so well. At least for the most part. And it’s been so long since Stan’s spoken to Ford, spent time with him and even if he has to do it like this, even if he has to spend it with him in spirit, he’ll damn well do it. Anything to feel that connection again. Anything to not feel so damn _alone_.

Besides, he’d been lamenting on feeling trapped earlier. He’s spent so much of the last few years constantly moving that being stationary has made him feel itchy. Going out might alleviate that. Besides, the snow fall has tapered off, the blizzard taking a break. It’s merely cold and still outside. Perfectly fine for a jaunt out.

Stan gets to his feet and heads for the stairs, mind made up.

 

+

 

The snow comes up past Stan’s knees yet he trudges through it. He has the radio sitting on the porch, volume all the way up as he walks around in a circle, just enjoying the satisfying crunch of powder under his feet. He tips his head back to look at the darkening sky and breathes in loudly, “Man, that smell…nothing like the smell of snow.”

“Or the ocean,” Ford’s voice rings out, “I _do_ remember that. The salty, briny air. The sound of the waves lapping at the shore. The feel of sand between my toes.”

“And your butt crack?” Stan jokes and there’s a weary sigh, “I thought we were having a nice moment…”

“We are!” Stan argues but Ford goes on as if he hasn’t spoken, “…yet here you are. Ruining it with your vulgarity.”

“C’mon – it was a _little_ funny,” Stan counters, “Remember how Ma’d damn near shove us into the shower when we were kids? We’d come home all crusty with sand – sand in our hair, under our fingernails, up our butts and on our balls and she’d make us rinse off until it all went down the drain and on time – that one time, it got clogged we had so much sand…”

“I don’t remember and find I’m oddly grateful that I don’t,” Ford mutters but Stan still hears the affection. Christ, he didn’t really realize how much he missed this. Or maybe he did, but he did his best to ignore it, to push it down and forget it. Now it’s here, wrapped around him and he’s so damned happy he could burst with it.

It feels so damned good to be around someone who cares about him, someone who gives a shit. He’s wandered the world a long time with no one giving him a second glance. No one actually caring about him, liking him, wanting him. And to get it from Ford again – Ford, the only person he ever wanted it from in the first place…

Stan shakes his head at himself, hating how silly and sentimental he’s getting, “So, I’m out here, Sixer. What about you?”

“I’m standing on the porch. Leaning against one of the supports.”

“You made me get out in this cold slush and you ain’t even here next ta me?!”

“Even if I was, I wouldn’t feel it. Besides, I can…ah, hover, if I wish.”

“Holy shit!” Stan grins, “You can _fly_?”

“Not exactly,” Ford sounds reluctant, as if he shouldn’t have revealed this bit of information, “I can sort of…float. Move in more dimensions than standardly given with a human form.”

“So you can fly?” Stan repeats with a jeer and he gets another sigh for his trouble, “I…suppose.”

Stan pumps his fists, because getting Ford to concede a point is always worth it. Stan walks around some more and then starts the process of making a snowball. He rolls it nice and firm before putting it back on the ground to roll. It starts to grow in size and his huffs from exertion makes clouds in the air. He eyes the porch, “You to the left or right?”

“Right.”

Stan starts rolling the ball in that direction until it finally comes to a stop. It’s very large, making a nice base as he starts a second ball with a smirk, “We were always best at sandcastles, but that didn’t mean we didn’t make mean snowmen. And I got me an idea for this one…”

Stan makes the second large snow ball, though nowhere near as big as the first. He hefts it up to make the snowman’s middle before finally making the head. Once the snowman’s done he looks in the direction Ford told him he’d be in, “Hey, SuperFord – how’s about you fly inta the house and get me a coupla things for our snowman here?”

The radio crackles and Stan’s smirk grows, thinking about how Ford probably looks annoyed. He certainly sounds so when he speaks, “What do you want me to get?”

“I need shades, a comb, and a hat. Preferably a fedora if you got one.”

Stan gets no answer, but he’s sure Ford’s gone off to find the requested items. Several minutes pass, but sure enough Stan watches the three requested items materialize on the top step of the porch. He doesn’t grab them right away, first turning his attention to finding some rocks. He uncovers a few near the very foundation of the house, places where the snow drifts didn’t get as deep. He uses them to make a scowling mouth as well as a nose and a mole near the nose.

He finally picks up the hat, comb, and shades and puts them into place before tossing an arm around the snowman and pointing to it, “Ta da!”

“Well, he’s…quite a surly fellow,” Ford offers and Stan can easily imagine his brother standing there with a finger under one lip as he thinks and thinks. Finally he gets the response he’s hoping for, “He’s…also oddly familiar…”

“Yup! It’s Pops,” Stan draws his arm away and pats snow off of himself; “Thought this’d suit him. Man’s damn near made of ice in real life too.”

“Our father is a cold man?”

Stan snorts, “Yeah. That’s puttin’ it mildly.”

“I…seem to recall seeing him near the Shack,” Ford’s voice comes out of the radio with a bit of static, as if even the radio waves are picking up on his uncertainty, “I was…freshly…this. Just barely formed and finding out about what exactly I’d become and I was very disoriented, but I think…I think he was here…and there was a woman with him…”

“Probably Ma,” Stan puts his hands in his pockets and shrugs, “Heard they came by. Our folks. Law guys talked about it. They didn’t stay long. From what they said and I actually listened to, they came to bury ya, pay their respects, then left. This place had been left ta me, so they had no rights to it – which means Pops couldn’t make a red cent offa it. ‘Magine that ticked him off something fierce. “

“He’s also a greedy man?”

“Not really,” Stan shifts from foot to foot, uncomfortable and wondering why the hell he put himself in this position. This is usually the last shit in the world he wants to talk about. Still, here he is, opening up to Ford and telling him things he should already know, “I mean…yes and no. He runs a Pawn Shop and he’s…difficult to say the least. Ma did some psychic phone thing – probably still does.”

“You don’t talk to them much?”

“I…” Stan gulps, eyes skirting away because he _feels_ Ford looking at him, feels it as if he’s fully there, “No. Not at all.”

“You fell out with them as well?”

“Stanford…it’s a long story and I swear I’m gonna tell you. I will. If you don’t remember soon, I’ll tell you all of it, but...but hey, can we please, please not talk about it now?” Stan hates how pleading he sounds. He’s close to petulant in his desperation and he knows he really has no right to ask this. For god’s sake, he should just man up and get it over with. Get it all out there. Tell his brother everything.

But he can’t find the will and, what’s more, he’s afraid. Terrified. Terrified if he tells Ford everything, Ford will stop. Ford will stop talking to him, stop being with him, stop being nice to him. Ford will send him away and Stan will lose him all over again. He’s already lost him so many times and in so many ways. He can’t bear the thought. He just can’t – it’ll end him this time. It will kill him. Kill him because he’s just…he’s not _strong_ enough.

Contrary to popular belief – Stan’s not that strong. Nor is he brave. He’s a weak, soft coward who needs his brother. He always has. He knew he’d never make it without him and he…he didn’t. The Shack falling into his lap is a blessing. As awful as the circumstances behind it are, being granted a place to live is an amazing stroke of good luck. He has no idea why Ford left him this place, and he knows Ford probably doesn’t remember why yet himself – but having it, having a real, reliable roof over his head…

And oh, Stan really doesn’t want to tell Ford about any of that. He doesn’t want Ford to know what a mess he’s made of his life. How he’s ruined it beyond repair. It would be easy enough to blame Ford for all of it, their falling out the catalyst of Stan’s downward spiral, but that’s too convenient, too easy. Stan’s made his own choices, his own mistakes and god, his mistakes are plenty.

The rising tide of these dark thoughts press down on Stan and he walks farther out into the snow until he finds a nice pristine patch to just fall back on. The snow crunches noisily beneath him, a cool, refreshing pillow. The sky is dark enough now that he can pick out pinpricks of stars and a tiny sliver of the moon. He lies there, looking up at the sky when he hears crunching sounds as if someone is walking towards him.

He bends up just enough to see, but there’s no impact in the snow, no marks. But he doesn’t feel any sense of dread, any inkling of fear that he might feel if it were The Other coming. He’s pretty sure it’s Ford, which is confirmed as his brother’s voice floats up to him. It’s far away, the radio, but turned up enough that Stan can hear, “Are you alright?”

Stan just hums and lies there. He lazily spreads his arms and legs, pushing them through the snow again and again, swinging motions so that when he stops he’s sure there’s a decent snow angel beneath him. A snow angel. Yeah, okay. More like a snow devil. His lips twitch as his thoughts take a nasty, self-deprecating edge and he feels a prickle in his throat. Fuck. He shouldn’t have had that drink the other night.

That’s all it takes to fall off the wagon – one drink. You have it and then you think – well, that didn’t hurt me. It didn’t hurt me as much as I nearly thought it would. So, well, maybe just one more. It won’t hurt, right. Maybe just one a week. Or one a day. Or maybe more than one – it’ll be fine. Fine, fine, fine. Stan throws one arm over his eyes and feels as if he’s being crushed, an oppressive weight pushing down on his chest and the only cure is a sweet sip of something alcoholically laden.

He’s so lost in his thoughts that he startles when there’s a loud crunching noise next to him. He turns and watches in astonishment as the snow nearby him sinks. It bends down as if crushed beneath some invisible weight and he sits up, watching with wide eyes as the snow…moves. It moves very slowly, very weakly but it swishes about and…and another snow angel is formed next to his.

Stan blinks at it. Is it…is it really?

His hand hovers above it, afraid to touch it, to disturb what’s been accomplished when the radio lets out a crackle. It buzzes and whirs and then Ford pants, “There…”

“Ford, you okay?” is his immediate response because Ford sounds so _weak_.

“Haven’t…” the word comes in a pant and Stan almost swears he hears a swallow as Ford continues in a threadbare tone, “…pushed myself…like that. Mostly…simple tasks….easy…to pick up an item or two…but to make…such impact…”

“Then you should’ve done it, ya moron!” Stan returns waspishly, worry and anger rolling around inside him. But all of that is lost when Ford breathes, “You looked…sad…wanted…you…feel better…”

Stan chews on his lips and flops back down. He feels like he’s a fucking child again. He wants to moan and shout – throw a huge tantrum about how unfair all of this is. Instead he looks down and can just make out the spot where the bottom tip of the snow angel’s wing is. It’s close to him and he reaches out, hand pressing down into it and he feels his face heat, embarrassment at an all-time high as he asks, “Am I-? Is this where your hand is?”

Ford doesn’t answer for a long time.

Finally Stan gets an answer.

“Yes.”

But Ford’s voice has changed – no longer does it sound weak or worn. Now it sounds…funny. Sort of…throaty. Maybe from the exhaustion? Stan’s not sure, but it almost sounds like Ford’s, ah, hot and bothered about it? Which is ridiculous for several reasons. First of all, Stan’d have no idea on earth how Ford would sound if he were turned on. Second, they’re brothers. Third, they’re just holding hands. No one gets a stiffy from hand holding and Ford can’t even _get_ a stiffy as a stiff and that’s a dumb joke and his twin is a ghost for fuck’s sake!

Stan cuts off his rambling thoughts by shaking his head to himself. Nah, he’s just being dumb. He heard wrong. He’s just tired and weird and been bogged down with too many dark thoughts. He should look on the bright side – be friggin’ positive for a radical change. He’s with Ford, they’re under the night sky, holding hands and being brother’s again.

This is all good and pure and as perfect as it can get, what with one of them being dead and all. The sky above them is gorgeous. A perfect midnight clear and Stan wishes the radio was a bit closer. As if an answer to his prayers, Stan hears Ford’s voice come more clearly the next time he speaks, as if the radio moved to a better position to amplify his brother’s voice, “Stanley…you shouldn’t lie out here too long. You’ll catch cold.”

“Well, the snow _is_ cold, so…” Stan smirks and feels his fingers dig into the snow, clasping and unclasping as if his fingers are interlaced with Ford’s. He imagines it like that. Imagines that’s how it would look as Ford gruffs, “Stanley, I’m being serious…”

“I know. Now come on and star gaze with me, Poindexter. Bet yer nerdy ass can tell me about them stars up there – tell me about consolations or whatever…”

There’s that loving sigh again, “It’s constellations and yes, bad memory notwithstanding, I recall many of them.”

“Then what’s that one,” Stan points up at a star cluster and he can almost imagine Ford shaking his head at him in beloved exasperation, “Canis major.”

“And that one?”

“Orion.”

“And that one…” Stan asks well into the night, his hand never leaving Ford’s.

 


End file.
